


The Long Road

by triedunture



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very bad thing happens. And then we must go on. (The one where Jeeves is shot by a robber and very nearly killed.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

'I still don't understand why I couldn't wear the yellow tie, Jeeves. It was a perfectly good example of spring season neckwear.' Bertram W. Wooster frowned down at the grey tie that now cut a straight line down his sternum, then looked up at his valet. The man in question was occupied with handing Bertie his hat and whangee, and the serene, blank look didn't flinch from his face at the faint protest from his master.

'I hesitate to correct you, sir,' Jeeves answered loftily, 'but the aforementioned article did not appear to me to be a good example of anything, barring, of course, an unnecessarily bright beacon, suitable for flagging down faraway ships from a desert shore.'

Bertie took the offered hat and walking stick with a sigh. He'd thought himself very clever, trying to sneak out the door with his new tie firmly wrapped round his neck. But even in the rush to make their appointment, Jeeves had sniffed out the contraband article and stopped Bertie before he could dash down the staircase. A small verbal skirmish had resulted in Jeeves' victory, of course. The valet had efficiently swapped the bright yellow with the more staid dove grey, which wasn't nearly as natty as far as Bertie could see. 'I wish you'd allow me just one or two splashes of colour in the Wooster wardrobe,' he lamented, fixing his hat on his melon. 'But you know best, I suppose.'

'Thank you, sir.' Jeeves' own bowler hat alighted on his majestic head, which tipped towards Bertram in acknowledgement. 'If you are ready, sir, we should be able to arrive at the tailor's with a few moments to spare. It is nearly the appointed hour of your fitting.'

Bertie agreed, giving one last mournful glance at the yellow tie, which was now draped over the back of the chesterfield where Jeeves had placed it after the hurried exchange. Then the door of the flat shut behind them, and Jeeves locked it with his usual care. Bertie was already toddling down the stairs, swinging his cane idly in one hand and whistling a new tune under his breath. He didn't yet know the lyrics, but he thought they had something to do with rafting down a river. Sounded downright cheerful, in Bertie's opinion.

Jeeves caught up to the young master at the bottom of the stairs, where Jarvis the doorman touched the brim of his hat and wished them both a good day before opening the front door for them. Bertie gave him a friendly 'What-ho!' while Jeeves offered a more demure, 'Good afternoon, Mr Jarvis.'

Out in the square, the sun shone smartly and the breeze blew with gentle pleasantness. Bertie took in a healthy breath and grinned up at the man at his side.

'I say, Jeeves, I was just about to suggest a vacation to someplace with a river; part of a song that's stuck in my noggin, you see.' He picked his way down the front steps with a lighthearted bounce. 'But nothing can beat the city in the springtime, what?'

Jeeves followed in his usual soundless glide. 'Indeed, sir. The sight of flowers blossoming and birds singing after such a long winter is most welcome.'

Bertie favoured the overflowing window boxes with a wide smile as they passed them by. 'I always did enjoy geraniums, Jeeves. My Aunt Charlotte used to keep loads of them in her flowerpots every summer. Such cheerful little fellows, so red and bright.'

'Yes, sir,' Jeeves said, keeping pace alongside Bertie on the wide sidewalk. 'Though the flowering plant that is usually called a geranium is actually a different genus entirely. It might interest you to know—'

'Oh, I don't think it would.' Bertie scrunched his face up distrustfully. 'I mean to say, if we're all calling it a geranium, than a geranium is what is it. No sense mucking around with genus, as they say.'

Jeeves regarded Bertie from the corner of his eye. 'Very true, sir.'

'It's a strange business, Jeeves. This name thingummy.' Bertie squinted up at the sky and poked the tip of his tongue out of his lips in thought. 'I don't believe I—'

'Oi there!' a voice called. Bertie had to take two steps backwards to find its source: a narrow alley, where the greeting had echoed after them.

'Yes?' Bertie answered politely, stepping closer.

From the dark recesses of the alley, a man in a dust-coloured jacket appeared. 'Have you got the time?' he asked.

Jeeves stepped in front of Bertie smoothly, taking his pocket watch out for consultation. 'Certainly. It is—'

But just as Jeeves was about to parse out the solicited information, the strange man pulled a metallic, glinting something from his jacket pocket, aimed it, and fired it. It was only after ten whole seconds had passed that Bertie realised the something was actually a gun: five to recover from the loud banging noise, three to stand in shock, and two to grope for the word 'gun'.

Bertie turned round, his mouth and eyes as wide as they had ever been. Jeeves had fallen to the cobble-stoned ground on his back, his gold watch still gleaming in his hand, his face turned away from Bertie's sight.

'Jeeves,' Bertie breathed. Every muscle in the Wooster body appeared to be frozen, even as the mind screamed in wordless horror. And it seemed that, for a long time, nothing happened.

Then time seemed to catch up with itself, going from still to incredibly sped up. A heavy hand landed on Bertie's shoulder, and he found himself pushed back against the rough brick of the alley wall. Bertie's walking stick clattered to the ground, dropped from his numb fingers. The strange man, the one with the gun, was hissing in his face, but Bertie couldn't hear anything beyond the whooshing of blood in his ears. He craned his neck to see Jeeves over the man's dust-coloured shoulder; the valet's right arm moved slightly, groping along the ground as if for purchase. Still alive!

'Jeeves!' Bertie surged forward in an attempt to get to the man's side, to help him however he could, but the stranger's strong hands held him back.

'The money!' he was shouting in a coarse accent. 'Hand over your bloody pocketbook!'

'Money? I don't have any money!' Bertie said, his mind whirling in circles so fast, he couldn't even understand the demand.

'What do you mean, no money? Are these clothes just a costume, then?' The man grabbed a hold of Bertie's grey silk tie and pulled hard enough to choke. Bertie gasped for breath, his fingers scrabbling at his throat.

'N-no...I mean, I don't carry money. Jeeves...my man...he carries my billfold,' Bertie managed in a tortured voice.

The man released his tie and shoved him in Jeeves' direction. 'Then get it off a' 'im, damn it!'

Bertie didn't need any more encouragement to scurry to Jeeves' side. He knelt down on the cool flagstones, gazing down at the black-clad figure. Jeeves' chest was rising and falling slowly, and ragged, bubbling breaths were hanging audibly in the air. Bertie reached out and took Jeeves' face in his hands, turning him to get a better look. Pale, the man's face was so pale. Even his lips looked ashen. As Bertie watched, his eyelids fluttered once, twice, and then his dark blue eyes, glazed with pain, looked up at Bertie.

'Sir...?' he whispered, his voice a thin and brittle line. 'What...?'

'I don't have all day,' the hated voice of the gunman sneered, and Bertie was cuffed soundly on the back of his head. 'Get it off a' 'im now!'

'All right, all right!' Bertie babbled, hunching down away from any repeat blows that might come. He spread Jeeves' black suit coat open, and then bit down on a wail of anguish. Bits of red were flecked against Jeeves' crisp white shirt. Bertie glanced over Jeeves wildly, searching for the wound. There it was: an ugly rent in the fabric of his black waistcoat, on his left side. There was so much blood gushing forth, Bertie wasn't sure what to do. He pressed a hand over the bullet wound in a panicked attempt to stop it up, but Jeeves cried out, a sound of pure agony, and Bertie pulled his hand away, sticky and red. Jeeves' eyes slid shut again as if he hadn't the strength to keep them open.

'Well? Does he have it or doesn't he?'

Bertie felt the cold, hard steel of a gun barrel press against the back of his head, digging into his tousled curls. He shut his eyes with a whimper. 'Just, just give me one moment. Please,' he said as levelly as he could manage. He curled his shaking fingers in the lapel of Jeeves' coat, trying to regain his composure.

'Hurry it up,' the man said.

'Please,' Bertie said again, and he suddenly was aware of the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

'I swear to God I'll shoot him in the heart if you don't hand over that pocketbook,' was the answering growl. The weapon gave a menacing click.

'No! Please, don't.' Bertie snaked his hands back into Jeeves' coat, feeling along for the inner pocket. He was both gratified to feel the lungs under his hands drawing breath, and scared to feel how slow their movements were. Finally, his fingers clutched at the items Jeeves always kept in his suit coat. He tore them out and rifled through them: a telegraph pad, a small notebook, a train schedule...

'Here! That's all of it,' Bertie said, finally turning to hand the gunman the leather billfold. 'Now please...' He spread his arms as if to protect Jeeves from any more attacks, unsure of what the man would do next, if he would follow through on his threat for no reason other than he could.

The man flipped through the neat folds of cash with a frown. 'Hand over the watches too.'

'The what?' Bertie gaped.

'Watches!' The gun was waved in his face. 'Both of them! Give them here.'

Bertie's uncooperative fingers fumbled with his watch chain. It was a gold watch; a memento from his father. It was inscribed with his parents' wedding date. Bertie was ashamed to realise he didn't care. He handed the thing over without a second thought.

'And the other chap's.'

He pried the pocket watch from Jeeves' hand and unhooked it from its chain with shaking fingers. 'I'm sorry, Jeeves. Lord, I'm sorry,' he whispered.

For one moment, Jeeves opened his eyes again. His lips parted, but no words came out.

The trinket was ripped from Bertie's hands the moment he had it free. Then the gunman shoved the items in his trouser pocket, gave a small, unfathomable bow, and disappeared into the street. Bertie was left in the dark alley, kneeling beside Jeeves, his heart racing in his chest.

 _Snap out of it, Wooster!_ he told himself sternly. He dashed a hand across his wet eyes and then tore his suit coat from his shoulders. Jeeves was in dire need of help, and he couldn't just sit there like a gaping goldfish and let his man down. He balled the coat in his hands and pressed it to the wound in Jeeves' side to staunch the flow of blood. Pressure, that's what was needed. Bertie vaguely remembered such a tactic from one of his murder mysteries.

'S-sir,' Jeeves said quietly, his glassy eyes wandering over Bertie's face.

'Stay awake, Jeeves. Keep your eyes open,' Bertie ordered, not knowing if keeping one's eyes open would do any good in this kind of situation; he only knew it would make him feel better if Jeeves was awake and with him. 'It's going to be all right.'

'Not the blue stripe, sir,' Jeeves whispered. His hands came up to lay atop Bertie's on the bundled suit coat. His eyes fell shut once more, fluttering with the effort to remain open and losing the battle. 'It will be ruined...'

'I don't give a damn about the blue stripe!' Bertie cried, keeping a firm hold on his makeshift bandage. From the edge of his vision, he saw a few shapes of what must have been passersby, and he remembered that this was the proper time to call for help. So he screamed his head off, and two stalwart-looking fellows came running. One was wearing a postman's uniform, so Bertie guessed he might be a postman. The other looked like a window-washer, clothed in dingy coveralls.

For the rest of his days, Bertie promised himself, he would never say an unkind word about either postmen or window-washers.

'He's been shot,' Bertie said, or at least he think he said, as the men approached with helping hands outstretched. He could have been babbling in Bantu for all the sense he seemed to be making.

'Calm down, lad,' the postman said. 'He needs a doctor.'

'Dr Hollis has a surgery four blocks down,' the maybe-window-washer suggested.

'Too far. Is there a place nearby we can carry him, lad?'

Bertie stared down at his hands, now jumbled with Jeeves', on top of the pinstriped coat. It was becoming soaked with blood, sodden and heavy with it. It squelched from between his fingers.

'Hey!' The postman shook Bertie by the shoulder.

'Er, yes. Yes, my flat is around the corner. Berkeley Mansions,' Bertie finally answered. A small crowd seemed to be gathering now at the mouth of the alley, and the postman put them all to good use.

'You!' he directed a small boy. 'Run to Dr Hollis and tell him to come to— The number, lad, the number!'

'Six-A,' Bertie said.

'To six-A, Berkeley Mansions.' The boy scampered off. 'And you!' The postman pointed to someone else milling in the crowd. 'Find a bloody policeman!'

'Let's lift on three, shall we?' The window-washer grabbed Jeeves' legs, and the postman took his arms.

'Please be careful,' Bertie said. 'Please.'

'No worries, lad. You just keep holding that over the bleeding and don't let up. Ready? One, two...'

There followed a flurry of activity, the carrying of Jeeves' limp body, the parting of the crowd and the cries of women at the sight of the blood on the ground. Bertie kept pace with the two workmen, keeping his coat clasped over the bullet hole, feeling Jeeves' limp hands fall away from his to hang in the air. He dared a glance at Jeeves' face. His eyes were closed. Outside of this insane scene, with all these people and all this shouting, Bertie might have believed he was sleeping peacefully.

'Don't worry, Jeeves,' he murmured, more to himself than anything. 'It's going to be all right.' Though he had no idea if this was the truth.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Bertie barely remembered the journey back to the flat, barging past Jarvis with his precious cargo hanging suspended between two men, and the dangerous climb up the staircase. He had enough forethought to reach into Jeeves' blood-soaked trouser pocket for the house key, and he unlocked the door with one hand when they reached it, his other not leaving its task at Jeeves' injury. Jeeves was borne by their hands into the familiar room and, after a shouted directive from the postman, into the kitchen to be laid out on the flat butcher-block table.

'The doctor'll want to work on him on a steady surface like this,' the postman explained when Bertie blanched at the sight: Jeeves stretched out flat on his back in a parody of the noontime meal. His face was slack and relaxed. If one didn't look below his neck, he seemed perfectly content. But the spattered stains below his still-perfect necktie...

And then the doctor rushed in with his bag and his assistants, led by Jarvis. There was a few policemen in the mix as well, and so much shouting that Bertie wasn't sure what was happening, exactly. His hands were pried away from Jeeves' wound, and he was given a push out of the room so the men could work.

The kitchen door swung shut behind him, and Bertie stood alone in the parlour. He stood there for God knows how long, just staring round the room. It was like a room from another world; only minutes ago he had left this room with Jeeves, the both of them on their feet, chattering about flowers and tailors and nothing of importance.

Bertie lifted a shaking hand, thinking he'd smooth down his hair, but when he caught sight of the tacky blood drying on his palms and under his fingernails, he dropped the hand to his side. His gaze fastened on a strip of fabric laying innocently over the back of the chesterfield: the yellow tie. The clock struck one, the time for Bertie's appointment at the tailor's.

How different things had been just a few minutes ago, Bertie thought. If he hadn't tried to wear the ill-fated yellow tie, if he hadn't fought Jeeves so wilfully on the matter, they would not have been walking by that alley at that one specific moment, and Jeeves would be...

Bertie sat down in an armchair, suddenly afraid his knees were going to give out if he didn't. The clock continued ticking. The hoarse voices of strange men came, muffled, from the kitchen. Bertie regarded his gore-stained hands, hanging uselessly between his thighs, and he wondered idly if he should go wash up. It seemed, though, that he couldn't force himself to stand. He couldn't quite force himself to take a real breath, even.

His chest shuddered with a frightful pain. He felt he was going to be ill.

'Excuse me, Mr Wooster,' a quiet voice said from behind him.

Bertie looked over his shoulder to find one of the men exiting the kitchen.

'My name's Inspector Evans, sir. I'll be needing to ask you some questions about the incident,' he said, standing before Bertie.

'Is he...?' Bertie glanced at the kitchen door.

'Dr Hollis is doing all he can, sir. He's a fine surgeon. Has to get the bullet out first, of course.' The policeman took a small pad of paper from his trench coat's breast pocket and licked the tip of a pencil stub. 'Now your doorman says the victim's name is Jeeves?'

Victim. What a strange thing to call a person. 'Yes.' Bertie rubbed his palms together. Some of the blood flaked off in bits, sprinkling the carpet.

'And his given name?'

'Erm.' Bertie rubbed his temple, heedless now of the blood. 'Good Lord. I've never heard it. I, I don't know.'

Inspector Evans gave a small pause, then scribbled something in his notebook. 'I'll need to get in touch with his next of kin, then. Can you tell me...?'

Bertie held his head in his hands, staring at his scuffed shoes, his dirtied trouser cuffs. 'I don't know. Oh God, I don't know.'

'Does he have family in the city, perhaps?' Evans prompted.

'Yes, yes, I believe so. He has a niece. And a sister, he sometimes mentions having tea with his sister. But I have no idea where—' Bertie broke off with a crack in his voice. 'I don't have a bally clue where they are.'

'Take a deep breath, sir. Try to remember,' the policeman said.

'There's nothing to remember! I've never asked about his family. Oh, dash it,' Bertie moaned into his cupped hands.

'If I may, officer.' Bertie looked up at the sound of the kitchen door swinging open and shut again. Jarvis the doorman stepped into view. 'Mr Jeeves often sends letters to his sister, name of Jacobs. I've posted a few of them as a favour. She resides somewhere in Marylebone, if I remember.' He gave Bertie a discrete glance. 'His given name is Reginald. That's what the return address always says.'

'Thank you, my good man. Extremely helpful.' Evans wrote in his notebook. Jarvis lifted his hat to him, and to Bertie, and then departed with a soft, 'If you need anything, Mr Wooster, I'll be downstairs.'

Bertie stared at the carpet beneath his feet. How many years had Jeeves lived under his roof? And it had never occurred to Bertie that the man even had a first name. The doorman knew more facts about Jeeves than Bertie did.

'Mr Wooster,' Inspector Evans cleared his throat, 'I know you're shaken from your ordeal, but we find that it's best to get details from a witness as soon as possible. Can you describe the gunman?'

Bertie swallowed. 'His coat was a sort of grey colour. Like dirt.'

Evans nodded and marked it down in his little book. 'What else?'

'I don't know,' Bertie said in a strained voice.

'How tall would you say he was?'

'I don't remember. A bit taller than me, I suppose.'

'Was he thin or fat?'

'He wasn't fat. Not too thin either, I don't think.'

'Any scars? A beard? Eyeglasses?'

Bertie shrugged helplessly. 'No. Not that I can recall.'

Evans pressed. 'Do you recall what colour hair he had?'

'Dark?' Bertie bit his lip. 'Brown, maybe black.' He shook his head. 'I'm sorry, it all happened so quickly. I didn't even look at him, really. I was so worried about Jeeves. So shocked that the blighter shot him without saying anything, nothing at all.' Bertie held a hand out, gesturing emphatically to empty air, shaking it at an invisible opponent. 'I would have handed over the entire billfold! He didn't have to...' Bertie trailed off and squeezed his eyes shut briefly.

'Take your time,' Evans said. The room was very quiet again. The sick feeling passed over Bertie once more.

The kitchen door swung open again and the Good Samaritan postman and window-washer came through. Bertie looked up at them giving a start as he remembered he owed these men a great deal, and he'd offered nothing.

'Thank you, the both of you,' he said. 'I don't know what I would have done without your help. I don't have my chequebook on me, it was stolen, but can I get you a brandy or perhaps a scotch?' He gestured to the sidebar. 'I don't think I could stomach one myself.'

The two men politely declined. 'I left a bag of post somewhere on the pavement. I'd best go find it,' the postman said. The window-washer had a similar story about his bucket. The inspector asked them if they'd seen anything, and when it was determined they hadn't, they left the flat. Bertie hadn't gotten their names, he realised as soon as the door shut behind them.

'Let's start at the beginning,' Evans sighed, flipping to a new sheet of paper in his book. 'What happened first?'

Bertie began recounting the entire thing, trying to describe things as helpfully as he could, but finding his memory sorely lacking for the most part. The inspector was fairly interested in Bertie's descriptions of the stolen pocket watches, however.

'You say at least one of them carries an inscription?' he said. 'That might prove useful if the thief sells it. We can track it down in some of the dodgy broker shops, I reckon.'

Bertie nodded faintly, wondering how any of this would help Jeeves.

'There's been a rash of similar thefts in the city lately, you know,' the inspector continued. 'Young gentlemen being robbed at gunpoint, that is. Might be connected, but we'll have to investigate further. As far as I know, none of the other cases involved a shooting.'

'Do you have any idea why?' Bertie asked quietly. 'Why he would shoot Jeeves?'

The inspector rubbed his jaw in thought. 'Could be he felt your valet posed a threat. Quite tall, that one. Or it may have been an attack of nerves. Who can tell what these madmen think?'

'Yes, who can tell?' Bertie murmured to himself.

The kitchen door opened once again, and Bertie momentarily felt he was in one of those strange French comedy plays where doors are always opening and slamming to reveal new characters. A hysterical giggle fought its way out of his lips, and he clasped his hand over his mouth to stop it from being heard. Then he smelled the iron tang of the blood on his palms, and he tore his hand away in disgust.

A young man exited the kitchen, dressed in a red-spattered apron. 'I'm one of Dr Hollis' apprentices, sir,' the boy said. 'The doctor is stitching your man up now; we've removed the bullet and it looks like the bleeding will stop.'

'So Jeeves will be all right?' Bertie cried.

The youngster nodded in a sideways sort of way that means 'maybe'. 'He's lost a lot of blood, Mr Wooster. See, the bullet pierced the stomach and came to a halt at the anterior rib. That's the back of the last one, here.' He pointed to his own torso. 'Gave that rib a clean crack; that should mend on its own; nothing we can do about that. And of course, we had to close up the stomach so's the caustic acid wouldn't spill out into his—'

Bertie blanched and waved a hand in the air. 'Please, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I can't bear to hear any more.' He pressed the slightly less bloodied heel of his palm to his eye. 'It, it sounds so painful.'

The assistant shifted awkwardly on his feet. 'Rather unpleasant sort of injury, sir. But the patient was out cold for the entire ordeal. He won't have felt a thing.'

Bertie looked up. 'And when he awakens? How bad will the pain be?'

The boy shared a glance with the inspector, and Bertie felt a surge of annoyance. It seemed that everyone else in the world understood the extent of these injuries except Bertram Wooster. Bertie couldn't help it; he'd never so much as broken a limb in his life. Sure, he'd endured small scrapes and bruises such as boys usually collect in their boyhood, but he had little understanding of how terrible or lasting something like this gunshot might be.

'He'll be carefully monitored in hospital,' the doctor's apprentice finally said. 'Don't worry.'

'A hospital?' Bertie frowned. 'What hospital? Why must he—'

'He'll be better off in hospital, Mr Wooster,' Inspector Evans broke in. 'Mr Jeeves is in a very fragile state, and his recovery will need to be overseen by the doctors and nurses.'

'Yes, but if he's in such a fragile state, should we really move him? Lug him downstairs again and bung him into a cab?' Bertie asked in a shrill voice. 'Wouldn't he be better off staying here? This is his home!'

Bertie remembered quite clearly the time his rival in love had broken a leg in a car accident, and Bertie had been forced to give him the guest room while he recovered. Surely the same arrangement could be used now?

'Sir, I'm sure your heart is in the right place,' the inspector said gently, 'but you're not qualified to care for an invalid.'

Bertie stopped short then, his mouth hanging open. Invalid? Jeeves? Those two words were so completely divided in the Wooster vocabulary that it took him a moment to find his footing once more, and he resumed his argument. 'If I'm not qualified, I will hire someone who is.' He turned to the apprentice. 'I suppose you have nurses and such that take care of ailing people in their homes, what?'

'Yes, sir. Mrs Fennaweave is the nurse we usually send on such errands.'

'Then she shall come here.' Bertie nodded with a sort of finality. 'And Jeeves will be cared for at home. Would that be acceptable?'

The apprentice grimaced. 'It's not the normal sort of practise. The expense, sir, will be...'

The doctor stepped out of the kitchen then, surrounded by the rest of the uniformed policemen. 'Well, that's that, then. Should be stable enough for the moment,' he said, wiping his hands on a red-stained rag. 'If you'll allow us the use of your phone, Mr Wooster, my apprentice will call a van from the infirmary.'

Upon receiving a glare from Bertie, the apprentice stammered out Bertie's wishes as to Jeeves' care. The doctor balked.

'The man has received substantial internal damage,' he protested. 'The usual servant's accommodations are not suitable for a man in his condition.'

'Well, put him in my room, then.' Bertie rose from his chair, quelling the shake in his knees. 'My bed's the best one in the flat. He can't stay on the kitchen table forever, can he?'

The assorted men assembled in the room didn't answer, but looked round at each other in an uncomfortable manner, like a chorus that doesn't recognise the opening bars of a song. Bertie frowned.

'I will ask one or two of you gentlemen to assist me in carrying him there,' he said slowly. 'He's my valet, and I want him to have every comfort.'

Inspector Evans stepped forward and slid his notebook and pencil back into his breast pocket. 'Of course, Mr Wooster. My men will see to it.' And he gestured to several of the silent officers, and they paraded back into the kitchen. Bertie trailed along behind, feeling quite useless as the strapping young policemen arranged themselves round the recumbent figure in preparation for the move.

Bertie paled at the sight that greeted him in the kitchen: it looked like several of the dish towels had been called into service during the hasty surgery, and they littered the tile floor, soaked in blood. The butcher-block table, too, was rather gory. And the Jeeves that was laid upon it...he didn't at all resemble the Jeeves Bertie knew.

Jeeves was still deep in the grip of unconsciousness, it looked like. His shirt and jacket had been cast aside in a torn heap on the floor; Bertie nudged it with his foot, noting how completely ruined they were. Jeeves' torso was bare, pale in the weak light of the kitchen. The other doctor's apprentice was applying a poultice to Jeeves' wound, about three inches from his trouser waistline on the left side. Bertie caught a brief glimpse at the black stitches, stark against white flesh, before they were covered in clean cotton by the apprentice.

'Good thing you chappies are here,' this new apprentice said quietly. 'I need you to lift him just slightly while I wrap this bandage round him to hold everything in place. Do be careful, please.'

Bertie liked this apprentice more than the other one. The boy's hands appeared to be gentle as he wrapped the strips of cotton, deftly avoiding the injury. When he was done, he nodded to the patient policemen. 'Right. You may take him now.'

With a small amount of shuffling round, the squadron of men managed to manoeuvre Jeeves out of the room. Bertie wrung his hands as he watched them go, calling, 'The first bedroom down the hall, please!'

'I heard you demanding the services of Mrs Fennaweave,' the young apprentice said as he snapped off a pair of rubber gloves. 'I must warn you, sir, she's a most knowledgeable nurse. She's the best at keeping wounds clean and seeing to bandages. But Mrs Fennaweave can be a tad overbearing. Some fellows don't enjoy having a lady like that round the home, if you catch my meaning.'

'If she can tend to Jeeves as he needs to be, that's all I care about,' Bertie found himself saying. It was an odd thing, suddenly clamouring for this aunt-like figure in his life when all this time he'd avoided them at whatever cost. 'I'm sure she will be most satisfactory.'

The younger man regarded Bertie with a serious gaze for a moment. 'I'll clean up in here. You needn't worry about that,' he offered at last.

'Thank you,' Bertie said stiffly. 'Don't bother with the table, though. I'm going to dispose of it.' He eyed the blood-slicked surface.

'A good idea, sir. I'll see that it's removed,' the boy said, and set to work collecting the ruined tatters from the floor. 'Perhaps you'd like to wash up?' He tipped his chin in the direction of the kitchen sink.

Bertie remembered his hands, still sticky with blood. He moved to the basin and twisted the hot water knob, wetting a cake of soap and working it between his fingers and under his nails. The resulting suds turned pink, rinsing away down the drain like candy floss. It was a mesmerising spectacle, one that reminded him of his boyhood days by the seaside. Bertie scrubbed in silence for a moment before giving a violent start. 'Oh! Jeeves will need his pyjamas,' he muttered. 'I'd better...'

Jeeves' quarters were just off the kitchen, and the door was unlocked. Bertie slid into the small, plain room with ease, glancing round with tentative curiosity. He hadn't been in the room since Jeeves had come to work for him. Bertie had always wanted to give his valet all the privacy he could, Jeeves being the sort of cove who plays his cards close to the chest and all. But now, he thought, perhaps he hadn't been nosey enough. After all, he had no idea where the man even kept his sleepwear.

The modest chest of drawers on the right seemed a good place to start. Bertie stood before it, examining the two framed pictures that sat on its gleaming surface. One was a very old photograph, yellowed round the edges with age, showing a married couple: the woman, raven hair pulled into a firm bun, and the man in an immaculately pressed butler uniform. A severe-looking pair, but Bertie reminded himself that the photograph was from that era when nobody smiled at the camera.

The other gilt frame held a picture card from New York. Bertie stared at the picture of the Empire State Building, regal in its nighttime glow, rising like a rocket on the skyline, dwarfing everything around it. Why would Jeeves keep this, Bertie wondered, a penny picture card on par with what must be his parents' portrait?

He shook his head and started opening drawers, averting his eyes at the socks and underpants before finally finding a suit of ivory cotton pyjamas.

The quiet, more likable doctor's apprentice was suddenly at Bertie's side. 'I'll take those for you,' he said, gently grasping the clothes from Bertie's hands. 'Don't worry; I'll get him fixed up.'

'Make sure the lapels are creased properly,' Bertie whispered, clacking his empty fists together. 'If they're ruffled, he's liable to have a heart attack when he wakes.'

'You're a kind man, Mr Wooster, to think of his comfort.' He turned to go, but paused in the doorway. 'It's not your fault, you know.' And then he left.

Bertie stayed in Jeeves' room for a few minutes more. He didn't pry into other drawers or look under the bed; he only wanted to read the spines of the stack of books on Jeeves' nightstand, to inhale the minty smell of brilliantine and the dusky scent of shoe polish. And then he left to finally take stock of Jeeves.

He strode down the hallway, taking deep breaths into his lungs. Jeeves was going to be all right in time. Everything was going to go back to normal soon, and the shaking hands, raspy throat, and jumping nerves of B. Wooster would be a thing of the past. Bertie just had to remember that.

A stream of men passed him in the hall, tipping their police helmets to him. The doctor and his helpers followed. Hollis told Bertie that Jeeves was still asleep, and that Mrs Fennaweave would be sent over to pass the first night with them. Behind him, policemen were carrying away the sullied kitchen table.

'The greatest danger at this point is infection,' the doctor warned. 'Mrs Fennaweave will ensure that your man is taken care of. I'll return in a few days to make sure he's healing normally.'

Bertie thanked him and shook his hand, and in a moment, everyone emptied out of the flat. And Bertie was left very much alone.


	3. Chapter 3

After checking that all the locks were secure on the front door, Bertie stole into his bedroom to find Jeeves tucked into the bed. His pale face was dotted with sweat; Bertie hoped that wasn't a sign of fever. He placed two fingers on the side of Jeeves' neck, as he had often read about detectives doing in books, but he could feel nothing amiss. Jeeves' skin was clammy, but not too warm. Then again, Bertie wasn't sure what the correct temperature was for a valet's neck.

He retracted his hand.

Jeeves lay very still on the sheets, matching them for paleness. Dark brows were no longer drawn together in thought or consternation, but relaxed and unmoving. Black lashes fanned against slack cheeks; bloodless lips were parted just a touch. His jet-black hair, normally so smoothed and polished, was mussed into disarrayed strands. Bertie brushed one such strand from Jeeves' forehead and tucked it behind his ear.

Bertie saw a spot of blood below Jeeves' earlobe. The apprentice must have missed it in his careful clean-up, he thought. He retrieved his handkerchief from his pocket and wet it in the washbasin, then returned to Jeeves' side to wipe the blood away.

It was so strange, the flat being so silent. Why, Bertie couldn't recall the last time his rooms held no noise at all. Even when he lived alone, before Jeeves had arrived on his doorstep, chatter and piano-playing had still filled the air of Berkeley. But now the only sound was Jeeves' breathing, the sigh of his lungs rising and falling. Home was a very quiet place now.

Bertie chewed at his bottom lip and wondered about the contents of his billfold: he always kept a few name cards in there, complete with full name and address. The thought that the man who had done this knew where they lived...it made Bertie shiver to consider it.

He pulled a straight-backed chair up to the bedside and sat, waiting for Jeeves to awaken.

Several hours must have passed, for Bertie was shaken out of uneasy dreams by the ringing doorbell. He shook his head to clear the nasty images: shadows leaping out of alleys and dragging Jeeves down into sewers while Bertie shouted for them to come back. The doorbell rang again, and Bertie looked over at the man in the bed. Jeeves was still asleep, still breathing. Some colour had now returned to his cheeks, possibly a good sign, possibly feverish. The bell rang a third time, and whoever it was seemed to be holding it down.

Bertie rose to his feet with a wobble and went to answer it with trepidation.

The door opened to reveal a battle-axe of a woman: small, wrinkled, scowling, and smelling faintly of iodine.

'Mr Wooster,' she barked. 'Show me to him.'

'You must be Mrs Fennaweave,' Bertie said with a relieved and watery smile.

'The patient, if you please.' She bustled by him and surveyed the flat quickly. Then, as if sniffing out suffering like a bloodhound, she continued on down the hall in the direction of the master bedroom.

'His name is Jeeves,' Bertie supplied, trailing behind. 'He was—'

'I know, you silly ass. I can read Dr Hollis' notes as well as the next code-cracker. These doctors today; their penmanship is appalling.' Mrs Fennaweave pushed on through to the bedroom and stood at the foot of the bed, eyeing Jeeves as if he were a field of war and she, a general. 'He hasn't roused?'

'No.' Bertie fidgeted behind her. 'Is that bad?'

'Pish. It's normal. Man's lost a lot of blood.' She placed a large carpetbag on the floor and began shuffling through its contents. 'He'll need his dressings changed soon, I'd think. You'll need to lend a hand; he looks too big for me to handle alone.'

'What shall I do?' Bertie asked, stationing himself beside the bed.

The little woman looked him up and down with a disconcertingly sharp eye. 'You shall change into clothes that aren't slathered in muck, is what you'll do! Have you no concept of what an infection would do to this man?'

Bertie looked down at himself as well: the knees of his trousers were dirtied from where he'd knelt on the cobblestones, his tie was askew, and his empty watch-chain was swinging from his waistcoat like a lonely party streamer. 'Yes, quite,' he murmured, and went to the wardrobe to pull together a serviceable ensemble.

Mrs Fennaweave, meanwhile, set about disrupting Jeeves' cosy rest. She tore the bedclothes from atop his form, revealing that the nicer apprentice had, indeed, creased the pyjama lapels in the proper way. Bertie excused himself to change in the salle de bain, and when he returned wearing his fresh clothes, he found Mrs Fennaweave divesting Jeeves of his own. The pyjama shirt had been removed, and the white bandages curled round Jeeves' torso became evident once more. Mrs Fennaweave was muttering under her breath about all the clothes getting in her way, and she discarded the pyjama shirt on the floor.

'Get behind him, please,' Mrs Fennaweave directed, sorting through her carpetbag.

'Sorry?'

Rolls of white bandages were retrieved from the bag. Mrs Fennaweave inspected them as if looking for defects, much like she'd looked at Bertie earlier. 'Please place yourself on the bed behind the patient so that you may lift him upright while I change his dressings.'

Bertie removed his just-put-on shoes and did as he was told. He slid between Jeeves and the headboard, hooking his arms under Jeeves' to hoist him into a sitting position. He did this slowly, with the utmost attention paid to the man's injured side. Jeeves turned out to be very heavy, a solid, warm mass. Bertie found this comforting, though it was difficult to keep his grip.

Mrs Fennaweave nodded her approval as Bertie settled back against the headboard with the unconscious Jeeves resting against his chest. 'Well done,' she said in a manner that suggested she had had serious doubts. 'Now hold him steady, please.' And her wrinkled hands went to work at a surprising speed, unwinding the bandages from Jeeves' ribs.

Bertie peeked over his valet's shoulder, trying to pay attention to the woman's ministrations. After all, he might need to do this particular manoeuvre solo at some point, and he needed to learn how to bandage Jeeves correctly. Bertie regarded the man in his arms: eyes still closed tight, breath coming slow and ragged, his warm bare back pressing against Bertie's shirtfront with every inhalation. Bertie swallowed. He had always held Jeeves up to the standards of a god, a magician, a paragon of upstanding feudal spirit. Seeing him laid flat was going to take some getting used to. Mrs Fennaweave's quick hands passed between them briefly, over and over, winding the bandage as she went.

'You will need to hire another girl to assist me,' Mrs Fennaweave grumbled, tucking the end of the new bandage into itself. 'Or else you'll be helping me do this every day. I'm supposed to be helping invalids spoon up their soup; I'm too old to be hauling a man like this about on my lonesome.'

'I don't mind lending a hand,' Bertie said quietly.

This earned him a beady-eyed glare from the nurse. 'Surely a gentleman like yourself has better things to do with his time?'

'If you knew Jeeves,' he returned, his gaze still on the valet's brow, furrowed in sleep, 'you wouldn't think so.' He swallowed. 'I don't want a boatload of strangers coming in and out. Not now.'

Mrs Fennaweave gave a hmph of disbelief and then began pulling the bedclothes over Jeeves once more. Bertie was about to slide off the bed when the man stirred in his grasp. His dark eyelashes fluttered, and Bertie caught a glimpse of his dark blue eyes in between the blinking.

'Jeeves?' he asked. Without meaning to, his grip on the man tightened.

The nurse bent to stare the valet in the face. 'Do you know where you are?' she asked like a drill sergeant, holding his chin between her thumb and forefinger.

'Mr Wooster,' he said in a voice so thready and weak, Bertie couldn't believe it came from the man who brought him tea every morning. 'Where is...?'

Mrs Fennaweave frowned, her countenance darkening. 'Tell me where you are,' she demanded.

Bertie felt the man take in a deep breath, his lungs inflating beneath bone and skin. 'I am home,' Jeeves said. 'Mr Wooster? Is he hurt? Where is he?'

'I'm right here, old thing,' Bertie said, patting Jeeves' shoulder as best he could while still keeping him upright. 'I'm here.'

'Sir.' Jeeves twisted his neck to look up at Bertie, his head falling on the slim Wooster shoulder. He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. 'Oh, sir. Why am I in your quarters?'

The older woman didn't seem keen on this line of questioning from the patient, because she forced his gaze back to her with a hand on each side of his face. 'How is the pain?' she asked.

Jeeves' clouded eyes tracked back to Bertie's. Bertie could see the sweat springing fresh at his temples, could feel his struggling breaths, could sense the pangs of tension coiling in every fibre of the man. Jeeves softly said, 'There is no pain, madam.'

'Jeeves, that's the biggest load of rot I've ever heard spoken. If you're hurt, you must tell Mrs Fennaweave here,' Bertie reprimanded. 'She's a nurse.'

'I am fine, sir.' Jeeves gave a sort of push as if attempting to free himself from Bertie's grip; it was a testament to how weak he must have been that Bertie's hands didn't even budge. 'I do not require a convalescence in your rooms.'

'Dr Hollis just extracted a slug of lead from your stomach.' Mrs Fennaweave marched over to her carpetbag and withdrew a dangerously large needle and a small bottle of fluid. 'Either you're in shock and you can't feel anything below your neck,' here she pinched at the covers, causing Jeeves' foot to flinch out of the way, 'which doesn't appear to be the case, or you're so stubborn, you won't admit how badly it hurts.' She filled the syringe, holding the device to the lamplight to view it closely. 'This should help.'

'I do not require morphine,' Jeeves said. His eyes shut as if speech was too much for him. 'Please, madam. It's not necessary.'

'What, is he afraid of needles?' the woman scoffed to Bertie.

'Absolutely not!' Bertie cried. To imply that a man like Jeeves feared something so mundane was beyond the pale. He looked back down at the man, who has now clutching at his encircling arms in a silent plea. 'It will make you feel better, Jeeves. Just let her give you the bally medicine.'

'No, sir. The morphine will dull my mind and leave me unable to be of any use.' The strain of speaking in his usual dulcet tones left Jeeves' lip quivering; Bertie even noticed a twitch in the eye area. 'I do not relish such effects.'

'What sort of use do you think you need to be right now?' Bertie took hold of Jeeves' left arm, the one nearest to Mrs Fennaweave and her hypodermic needle, and held it down on the mattress. 'I just want you better.'

Mrs Fennaweave stepped forward and slid the needle into a vein with only a faint gasp of protest from Jeeves. 'You'll be back to sleep soon enough,' she mumbled.

Jeeves was fighting to keep his eyes open as he looked back up at Bertie. 'I'm so sorry, sir,' he whispered, nearly gone back into Morpheus' world. 'I failed you.'

Bertie's mouth worked open and shut for several moments before he said, in a carefully worded response in deference to the feminine presence in the room, 'What do you mean, Jeeves? You've never failed me. If anything, it is Bertram who was the coward today.'

'...to protect you, sir, I'm supposed to...It's my duty.' Jeeves' fingers dug into the fabric of Bertie's sleeves with sudden shocking strength. 'But I was useless. I, I thought he would kill you too.'

'He hasn't killed anybody, Jeeves. You're home now,' Bertie said, gripping him just as tightly in return.

'Oh, yes.' Jeeves' head dipped, and his face came to rest against Bertie's chest. 'I had forgotten.' And he finally slept the sleep of the drugged: heavy and fevered.

Bertie felt the light puffs of air escaping Jeeves' lips and worming through his shirt to his chest. How many times had this paragon of a valet hoisted a drunken or exhausted Bertram into bed with naught but his bare hands and a barely raised eyebrow? And now here was Jeeves leaning on the Wooster for a change. Bertie shook; how was he supposed to be strong enough for this?

'You may get up,' Mrs Fennaweave said, cutting through the reverie in Bertie's brain, his study of his valet's slack face. 'He'll sleep through the night now.'

Bertie looked up at the woman with wide, damp eyes. It was difficult to keep the accustomed composure, but Bertie didn't see an alternative while this stranger was hanging round. 'Right-o,' he croaked, and extricated himself from the grasp of the tangled bedding.

'I will place myself at his bedside. If he awakens, or if any complications arises, I will take care of it,' Mrs Fennaweave stated in a tone that brokered no argument. She claimed the chair Bertie had left at the side of the bed.

'Do you need anything?' he asked, suddenly realising he was playing a terrible host. 'Something to drink or...? Well, I can't offer much, I'm afraid. I'm worthless in the kitchen. Jeeves is the one who knows where everything is.'

'I will help myself to the larder if need be, young man. I'm quite capable of fending for myself,' the nurse said with a sniff.

'Yes, of course.' Bertie nodded distractedly, watching the steady rise and fall of the bedsheets. 'Good night, then.'

He wandered out of his bedroom and went to the front door to double-check that the locks were engaged. Bertie then continued down the hall, thinking of bedding down in the guest room. But upon entering said room, Bertie bit his lip and spun on his heel. Such accommodations would not suffice. It was but the work of a moment to fly across the flat in stockinged feet, through the kitchen, and into Jeeves' quarters. The thin mattress, resting in its austere iron bed frame, called to Bertie.

Without bothering to undress, he crawled under the neatly made sheets and buried his face in a pillow that smelled of spicy brilliantine. What Bertram did that night could not rightly be called sleep; it was more exhausting than running a marathon. He dreamt of things crawling out of London's sewers, grotesque hands reaching for the tails of Jeeves' immaculate coat, and Bertie not being able to move. The images played in a continuous loop, and Bertie shivered in and out of horrified wakefulness.


	4. Chapter 4

Bertie awoke to find the unwelcome visage of Mrs Fennaweave staring down at him. Not the proper replacement for Jeeves at all.

'Why aren't you in the spare bedroom?' she asked. Bertie noticed she had brought no tea to speak of. Nothing like Jeeves in any respect.

'I thought you might want it,' he lied.

The woman snorted. 'You know very well I didn't intend to leave the patient last night. I'm here to do my job, Mr Wooster.'

'And Jeeves? How is he?' Bertie asked, sitting upright.

'Still sleeping, I expect. He barely moved a muscle all night long. You, on the other hand, look like a dog's breakfast.'

There cut through the early-morning quiet of the apartment such a howl, both Bertie and the heretofore unflappable Mrs Fennaweave both jumped.

'Jeeves!'

Bertie was out of bed in an instant, rushing down the hall towards the sound. His sleep-laden brain was convinced that the terrible gunman had broken into the flat, set on finishing Jeeves off.

Of course this wasn't the case, but the sight that met Bertie in his bedroom was awful still: Jeeves thrashing against the sheets, making the most heart-twisting screeches. But his eyes were still closed. Still dreaming. If such nightmares could be called dreams.

'Wake up! Look, look at me!' Bertie shouted from his new position atop the struggling man. He had flung himself there without a moment's consideration. All he knew was that all this shadow boxing couldn't be good for a person in Jeeves' condition; Bertie pinned his arms to the mattress to stop their wild strikes. He straddled the struggling hips below him, careful not to place any weight on Jeeves' injured torso. 'For God's sake, wake up!'

Jeeves opened his eyes, and if Bertie hadn't known better, he would have been convinced that this was not Jeeves; this was some dashed near lookalike. Because the real Jeeves whose head bulged in the back and moved in mysterious ways his wonders to perform, that Jeeves had never, ever looked frightened.

However, for the few moments that it took Jeeves to recognise Bertie's face, his eyes held nothing but real fear. This, in turn, scared Bertie.

'Jeeves, what's wrong?' he said in a shaken voice.

'The morphine's wearing off. Some people react to it in different ways,' Mrs Fennaweave said, breezing into the room with a scowl. 'No need to get so worked up over it.' She pulled her carpetbag into her arms and rooted about in it.

Bertie looked back down at the man beneath him; his cheeks were flushed as he tried to regain his normal breathing. 'Jeeves?' Bertie asked again, not letting go of his arms.

'I believe it was just a bad dream, sir,' Jeeves said softly. 'The good nurse is correct; you shouldn't concern yourself.'

Bertie glanced over to make sure Mrs Fennaweave was still occupied with her medical tools, and he whispered to Jeeves, 'Were you dreaming about it?'

Jeeves turned his head on the pillow, his eyes gazing at the far wall and not meeting Bertie's.

'I was too,' Bertie offered. 'Couldn't get a wink of sleep all night.' He swallowed.

'It is probably just an effect of the medicine, sir,' Jeeves said softly. 'To be frank, I cannot differentiate between what I remember happening yesterday and what I've imagined in these horrible dreams. But it is all over now, sir. You needn't worry.'

'So you're all right, then?'

'Of course, sir.' Jeeves appeared to attempt a sort of reassuring nod, but it was interrupted by a hiss of pain escaping his lips.

Bertie blinked. 'What...?' He looked down and saw a bright red blot spreading across the twisted bedsheets that covered Jeeves' torso. 'Oh my Lord. Mrs Fennaweave!'

The woman shoved Bertie off the bed and flipped the covers away. 'He's ripped out his stitches. We need to stop the bleeding. Hand me my suture kit, Mr Wooster.'

Bertie flew to the carpetbag that had been abandoned on the floor. 'What does it look like?' he squawked.

'It's a small leather packet. Mr Jeeves, would you please stop squirming about?' Mrs Fennaweave barked as she undid the soaked bandages.

Bertie looked up from his search for the kit to see Jeeves struggling to twist his head to meet Bertie's gaze. 'Sir, there's no need to be frightened. Please do not worry.'

'You're bleeding from a hole in your stomach, Jeeves! It seems like the perfect instance to start worrying. Now listen to Mrs Fennaweave and don't move.' Bertie returned to the carpetbag, his face growing hot. His hands finally closed around the small leather suture kit, and Bertie was struck by the chilling memory of finding the slim leather billfold in Jeeves' suit coat. He froze, his fingers gripping the kit with a death-grasp.

'Mr Wooster, if you've found it, would you please give it here!' Mrs Fennaweave held out one hand, as the other was occupied applying a bit of gauze to Jeeves' wound to stop it up. 'I swear, you are both the most hopeless patients I have ever—' She broke off her grumbling as Bertie shoved the kit in her waiting hand.

The next few minutes were gruelling for Bertie. Mrs Fennaweave directed him to mop at the wound with clean gauze while she replaced the torn stitches. At first, Bertie was sure he would faint, watching the needle threading its way in and out of Jeeves' skin. There was so much blood and so little hope that it would ever stop. But he knew Mrs Fennaweave needed his help to finish the job, so he averted his eyes when he could and stuck to it.

Jeeves took a sharp breath through his nose as the woman made the first stitch. Bertie grasped his wrist firmly to keep him from struggling.

'Shouldn't he be knocked out for this?' Bertie asked the nurse.

'No, please, sir,' Jeeves protested. 'The drugs do me more harm than good when they bring me feverish dreams. I'd rather,' here Jeeves stifled a gasp at the second stitch, 'stay awake for now.'

'I don't have time to administer the injection anyway,' Mrs Fennaweave grumbled. 'You've lost enough blood already. It's a wonder you haven't passed out yet.'

Jeeves shook his head and shut his eyes firmly against the third stitch. 'I'd rather stay awake, madam,' he repeated. Then he opened his eyes with steady resoluteness and regarded Bertie. 'Have you called the Junior Ganymede club, sir?'

Bertie furrowed his brow. 'Why would I—?'

'The club keeps a record of members' emergency information, sir. They will know how to contact my father if I—' Jeeves paused to grit his teeth against another stitch. 'If anything happens to me, sir. The club will also be able to provide you with a replacement valet.'

'I'm not going to replace you, Jeeves,' Bertie said.

'His recovery might take many weeks,' Mrs Fennaweave said without looking up from her work. 'At best.'

Jeeves nodded. 'You will need a substitute gentleman's gentleman.'

'I don't want one!' Bertie cried. 'I don't want any strangers flitting in and out of here.' He glanced at Mrs Fennaweave. 'Present company excepted.' The woman glared at him. He took a deep breath and held Jeeves' wrist tighter. 'You said something about your father?' he asked, hoping to distract Jeeves. 'Where is he?'

'He is the head butler at Wingfield Hall in Norfolk, sir,' Jeeves answered. 'It is unlikely that he will come to the city, but he might know of a suitable valet to serve in the interim period.'

'And your mother?' Bertie asked, ignoring the continued insistence that he hire a new valet.

'She was the housekeeper at Wingfield.' Jeeves fixed his gaze on the ceiling. 'She died when I was still a boy.'

'My mother, too,' Bertie whispered, 'when I was just a boy.'

Jeeves looked over at him. 'I know, sir.'

'I'm nearly finished,' Mrs Fennaweave mumbled, stringing the needle through flesh once more. 'How are you feeling, Mr Jeeves?'

Jeeves turned his gaze to the woman bent over his stomach with her needle and thread. 'I confess I feel a little faint, madam.'

Bertie jumped. For Jeeves, that meant he was about to fade out. 'What should we do?' he asked the nurse.

'Call the Ganymede, sir,' Jeeves whispered, his eyelids fluttering once more. 'Mr Jarvis knows the number.' And then Jeeves was out like a light. Mrs Fennaweave gave a sigh of relief and muttered something about being able to concentrate in peace. She completed her task in the blink of an eye and rebandaged the patient with Bertie's help.

It was, for Bertie, the work of a moment to rush downstairs, get the telephone number of the Ganymede from Jarvis and zoom back upstairs to dial it. He curled the 'phone cord round his finger while waiting to be connected. Finally, he had a task to perform for Jeeves, something that would actually help.

'Good afternoon,' a dusty old voice answered on the other end. 'This is the Junior Ganymede, Collins speaking.'

'What-ho, Bertram Wooster here. My man Jeeves is a member and—'

'Ah, Mr Wooster. What a pleasure.' Collins sounded almost jovial, a complete turnabout from his stuffy greeting. 'Forgive me, but we Ganymede members have heard so much about you, I feel like I know you personally. Mr Jeeves has often regaled us with charming tales of your exploits. What can I do for you, sir?'

'It's Jeeves.' Bertie turned his head to try and get a peek into the master bedroom from where he stood, but it was impossible. 'He's...confined to bed at the moment.'

'Oh, dear. I have never known Mr Jeeves to be ill.'

'He's not ill. He was...' Bertie swallowed. 'He was shot by a robber.'

'Indeed?' This Collins seemed to have Jeeves' ability to meet any disastrous news with not a chink showing in the armour. His tone betrayed no surprise, as if valets were shot every day in the city.

'Yes, indeed he was,' Bertie sniped. 'And he instructed me to contact your club. He said you'd know how to reach his father.'

'You'll be needing a man while Mr Jeeves recovers,' Collins said. Bertie could hear the flipping of pages over the line. 'At the moment, we have several candidates who—'

'I don't need a replacement!'

There was a pause on Collins' end. 'Mr Wooster, this is the standard procedure when one of our members has been put out of commission. Now, if you would allow me to—'

'No,' Bertie growled into the phone. 'Jeeves will be better soon. There will be no strange valets waltzing through the flat in the interim. I won't stand for it!'

Collins sniffed. 'Very good, Mr Wooster.'

'I merely wish to know how to contact Jeeves' father. Can you help me there?' Bertie could feel angry sweat forming on his brow.

'I can give you the telephone number for Wingfield Hall, sir. The elder Jeeves can be found there,' Collins said, 'but I really must advise that you seek out a temporary replacement as soon as you are able.'

'I'll just have that number, thank you.' Bertie reached for his handkerchief in his breast pocket to mop at his brow, but his hand encountered no such accessory. Jeeves had always made certain he had one while dressing; Bertie, left to his own devices, had forgotten it. He deflated, his anger whooshing out of him like a leaky balloon, and he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. 'I do apologise for the outburst, Collins, my good man,' he murmured. 'I haven't been at my best lately.'

'Understandable, sir,' Collins said, and rattled off the digits for Wingfield Hall. Bertie scribbled them down on the telephone pad and thanked the man again before hanging up.

Then there was another wait for the connection to Norfolk.

'Honestly,' Bertie mumbled to himself, tapping an impatient foot, 'who lives in bally Norfolk?'

Mrs Fennaweave bustled by with the bloodied bed linens, heading for the kitchen. 'His stitches are holding,' she offered as she passed. 'We should let him get some rest now.'

Before Bertie could answer her, the 'phone crackled to life.

'Wingfield Hall,' a deep, dulcet tone said. It was incredible, a perfect copy of Jeeves' voice. 'Who shall I say is calling?'

'Is this Mr...Jeeves?' Bertie asked tentatively.

'Yes, sir,' was the answering drawl. 'This is Jeeves.'

'Mr Jeeves, your son Jeeves, I mean, your son Reginald is my valet. This is Bertie Wooster. I'm, well, I'm your son's gentleman.' He took a deep breath. 'That is, his employer.'

'Yes, sir,' the butler answered. 'I am aware of his current position of employment.' And he waited silently.

Bertie guessed he should get to the point. Repeating this line was not getting any easier, it seemed. 'Jeeves is...' He suddenly felt very small; he felt as if he were somehow on the telephone with his own father, trying to explain how he'd made a mess of things _this_ time.

'Jeeves is hurt,' he managed to say. 'He's hurt very badly.' Bertie closed his eyes and sank onto the nearby chesterfield.

'What?' Suddenly the man didn't sound like Jeeves at all. He sounded like a worried father. 'What's happened?'

'I'm sorry,' Bertie croaked. 'There was a man with a gun, it was a robbery, and Jeeves was—' He broke off, seeing the scene again on the backs of his eyelids: Jeeves on the cobblestones, his face turned away, blood spreading across his suit coat, making the black fabric even darker. He squeezed his eyes tight, blotting out the visions as best he could.

'He was what?' the butler prompted. 'What has happened to my son?' This last part was not shouted, as Bertie had been expecting, but whispered so quietly, it may have been a mere figment.

'He was shot. The doctor has gotten the bullet out, though, and he's recovering here at the residence. It's been touch-and-go for the past few hours.' Bertie focused on a loose thread on his trouser cuff.

There was no answer for awhile on the other end of the line, and Bertie feared the worst: that somewhere in Norfolk, a butler was gnashing his teeth and rending his clothes. Then, finally, he ventured forth with a, 'Mr Jeeves? Are you still there?'

'Yes.' The voice was positively sideswiped, and Bertie was having a difficult time adjusting his ears to a Jeevesian voice that sounded overcome with emotion. 'Has Reginald...has he been asking for me?' he said.

'He's been asleep for a good portion of the time,' Bertie answered. 'He said it would be impossible for you to come to the city, but—'

'What! Of course I'm coming. He's my only boy, for God's sake.'

Bertie let out a breath he'd been holding. 'I'd be ever so grateful. To be honest, I don't know what to do. I've got a nurse in to see to his care, but it doesn't seem right not to have family here.'

'I can be on the next train,' Jeeves the Elder said. 'Don't worry, Mr Wooster. Family is on its way.'

And the call was ended.


	5. Chapter 5

Bertie stared at the receiver a moment before replacing it in its cradle. Jeeves' father must have been in a rush indeed if he had ended the call so abruptly. Even the famous Jeesvesian manners had seemed to desert him for the moment; all very well, in Bertie's opinion. He could easily imagine himself reacting the same way if Jeeves were his son, and it comforted him to know that another person was as rattled as he was.

'Mr Wooster?'

Bertie looked up sharply; he had nearly forgotten the feminine presence of Mrs Fennaweave. The house was so dreadfully quiet.

The older woman rubbed a hand across her drooping face. 'I am quite tired. Waiting up all night isn't as easy for me as it once was,' she said.

'Of course, of course.' Bertie leapt right, then left, unsure of which direction the extra blankets and pillows were. 'The guest room is yours to sack out in. I just need to find the—'

'I believe the linens are in the linen closet, Mr Wooster,' Mrs Fennaweave said gravely. 'I will help myself to them, if that is agreeable to you.' She cleared her throat. 'You will have to stay at the patient's bedside and alert me if anything happens.'

'Certainly.'

'I gave him another injection to keep him sleeping. Please do not try to wake him. He needs his rest.'

'Quite.'

Mrs Fennaweave frowned at Bertie, tipping her head in a slow nod. 'If you're sure you can manage for a few hours, then.'

Bertie waved her in the direction of the guest room. 'I'm sure.'

The old woman bustled down the hall with a curt jut of her chin in Bertie's direction, her long black skirts swishing and swaying behind her. Bertie took a deep breath and toddled up to Jeeves' bedside, rubbing at his own bruised and tired eyes. In truth, he could have used a lie-down himself, having gotten almost no real sleep the night before. But if the frenetic dreams he'd had were any indication of what he had to look forward to when he next closed the Wooster blues, he was content to stay awake for the moment.

He entered the bedroom that held the slumbering valet. Mrs Fennaweave had exchanged the bloodied sheets for clean ones, and Jeeves lay wrapped in their crisp whiteness, his hair only slightly mussed by the nurse's prodding. Bertie listened to his deep breathing for a short time, then went to the window to close the curtains, as they were hanging open.

It was a cloudy, dark day outside, Bertie saw. In the distance, a flash of lightning crackled in the sky. The faraway sound of thunder rattled through the window, and Bertie shivered. Raindrops were just starting to patter against the glass as Bertie wrenched the curtains together.

Another bolt of lightning lit up the dark room, throwing the planes of Jeeves' pale face into stark relief. Bertie sighed and dropped into the chair so recently vacated by Mrs Fennaweave. He fidgeted with his hands in his lap. He wondered if he should grab a book to help pass the time, but he was unsure that he could read one word, as jittery as he was.

Bertie got up to check the lock on the front door; yes, it was still engaged.

He hurried back to Jeeves' bedside, muttering to himself. Well, to the sleeping man, really. 'It's like a scene out of one of those thriller stories I always read, Jeeves,' Bertie remarked. 'I'm afraid the thunderstorm and the driving rain are causing the old imagination to run rampant.'

He slid back into the armchair and ran a hand through his bedraggled fair hair. 'I'm afraid I can't stop wondering about that terrible man. He has the address of the flat, you know.' He looked over at Jeeves. Still sleeping, of course. Bertie gave a small puff of breath through his nose.

'I'm afraid I—' He swallowed. 'I'm afraid, Jeeves. I'm just plain afraid.'

Bertie made a cushion out of his forearms on the edge of the mattress and pillowed his head on them. 'Do you think it would be too unseemly to let loose a few tears right now, Jeeves?' Bertie asked, his words muffled by the sheets he spoke into. 'It feels like I've been awake for days, and my mind keeps going in circles, and the only thing I come back to in the end is that this is all my fault. If it weren't for me—'

Bertie bit down on his lip. His face was over-heated in the warm spot he'd made for himself on the bed, and he felt a drop of moisture sliding down his cheek before soaking into the coverlet below. He took a shuddering breath and felt another streak of wetness follow the first.

He desperately wished that Jeeves would open an eye, raise a hand, and run his fingers through Bertie's hair, or perhaps grasp his fingers, and tell him in that low, calm voice that everything would be fine soon. But Jeeves was deep in the grip of the morphine now, and he did nothing but lay there and breathe.

Bertie managed to pull himself together after a few moments; he was supposed to be watching Jeeves for any signs of distress, not wallowing in his own despair. He wiped his nose on his sleeve (he _still_ couldn't find a handkerchief on his person) and swiped at the drops of tears that clung to his chin. Crying was always such a messy business, he thought with a sniff.

'Sir?' Jeeves murmured, his eyes still squeezed shut. His speech was slow and slurred.

'I'm right here, Jeeves,' Bertie said, manfully attempting to speak without a tremor in his voice. 'How do you feel?'

Jeeves sighed, a gesture that Bertie had never witnessed from his valet. 'I feel as if I'm underwater, sir. I cannot hold on to any of my thoughts.' His head dropped to the side against his pillow. 'They're rising away like air bubbles.'

'Probably the drugs,' Bertie posited. 'I can have Mrs Fennaweave come and—'

'No, sir.' Jeeves opened his eyes with what appeared to be great effort. 'I am grateful to the lady; I don't wish for you to be alone in the flat. But I find her ministrations to be less than pleasing.'

Despite himself, Bertie couldn't help but give a short laugh. 'Completely understandable, old thing. But Jeeves,' he said, 'I wouldn't be alone in the flat. You're here with me, what?'

'Oh. Yes.' Jeeves' eyes tracked along the bedspread with bleary slowness. 'I had forgotten.' He raised his gaze to meet Bertie's. 'Sir, your eyes are red.'

Bertie swallowed. 'Got some soap in them earlier.' He shrugged. 'I'm helpless without you, it seems.'

Jeeves gave a small half-smile at that, loosed by the drugs, no doubt. 'I wonder what comes next,' he murmured, his eyes tracking over Bertie's face.

Bertie quirked an eyebrow. 'What do you mean, Jeeves?'

'Now that I am dead,' Jeeves said with the smile still on his face, his eyes sliding closed again, 'I wonder what will happen to me. I should like to stay here, if I am able. It is a pleasant in-between place.'

'Jeeves?' Bertie blinked in confusion.

'There is still pain, so I know I'm not in Heaven. I never thought I'd be sent to Heaven, at any rate.' Jeeves' voice become quieter and softer. 'But surely this isn't Hell. Surely not...'

Bertie paled. 'You're talking rot, Jeeves. You're not dead; you're very much alive. You're just a bit out of sorts, is all,' he stammered.

'I wonder if you really are safe, Mr Wooster. I dreamt you were, but I have no way of knowing if that's true.' He sighed and forced his eyes open again. 'I'd like to think you are safe, and this is not just a dream.'

'I'm not a dream!' Bertie cried. 'I'm fine, and I'm real. Here!' He took Jeeves' heavy hand from where it lay on the coverlet, and he pressed it to his own fluttering heart. 'I'm flesh and blood, Jeeves. I'm alive, and so are you, dash it!'

Jeeves moved his hand over Bertie's chest, over the wrinkled shirt-front to the empty breast pocket of his suit coat. 'Your handkerchief is missing, sir,' he said.

'I told you,' Bertie choked out, 'I'm helpless without you.'

'I am so sorry,' Jeeves murmured, his hand still pressed to Bertie's heart. 'I taught you to rely on me, sir, and only me. Now that I am gone, what will happen to you? Who will make sure you dress appropriately, and who will bring you telegrams the way you like them brought?'

'You're not gone. You haven't been listening to me. You're going to be all right.'

'Yes.' Jeeves gave that strange half-smile, and though Bertie usually relished tiny hints of humour from his valet, this was a smile he never wanted to see again. 'Yes, I'm going to be just fine, sir. As long as I can stay here, and I'm not sent to Hell.'

'Jeeves—' Bertie protested.

'I'd like to continue speaking with you, sir, but I fear I am being dragged down into this awful sleep again. It overpowers me at the worst moments,' Jeeves said calmly. 'I think I shall shut my eyes, and when I awake, whatever comes next shall come. And I will not be afraid.'

'I'll be here,' Bertie said quickly. 'When you wake, I'll be here.' He felt new tears brimming on his eyelids, but they held their ground. 'You'll feel like such an ass, Jeeves, when you get better. You'll think of all this tosh you've been saying, and you'll be ever so embarrassed, mark my words.' He forced a laugh from his lips.

'It is kind of you to say so, sir.' Jeeves closed his eyes. 'But I am not afraid.' His hand slipped down Bertie's shirt to dangle from the edge of the bed.

'Jeeves?'

Bertie frantically pushed aside the bedsheets to uncover Jeeves' upper body. Jeeves' chest was still bare save for the fresh bandages. Bertie pressed an ear to his naked breastbone and nearly cried out in relief when he heard the steady beating of Jeeves' heart.

It was just the morphine confusing Jeeves' great brain, Bertie thought as he pulled the covers back into place. He wasn't dead; he wasn't going to die. He was fine. For now...

Bertie sat there for a long while, trying to catch his breath and calm himself. He was just beginning to inhale in the normal fashion when the doorbell rang. Bertie jumped about a foot from his seat cushion at the sound.

Lightning flashed through the curtains again. A crack of thunder rattled the picture frames on the walls. Bertie wondered if he should have Mrs Fennaweave answer the door, as it was obviously a murderer ringing the bell.

No, he thought, the Code of the Woosters doesn't allow for pushing old women into harm's way. So Bertie stood on his shaking stilts and made his way to the front door. He peeked carefully through the peephole and saw...

Well, just a lady. Not as young as the girls of Bertie's acquaintance, but not as old as Mrs Fennaweave. And she had not a pistol nor garrote in her hands. Instead, she held a piece of rain-soaked paper in one hand and a rained-soaked cone of flowers in the other.

Bertie unlocked the door and opened it with caution. 'Yes?' he said into the tiny crack between the door and its frame.

'Excuse me, sir. Perhaps I have the wrong address.' The woman looked at the damp slip of paper, an old envelope, it looked like. 'Is this Mr Wooster's residence?'

'I'm Wooster,' he said, still not opening the door any further.

'I'm Catherine Jacobs,' the woman offered.

Bertie stared at her silently.

'I'm Reginald's sister,' she elaborated. 'Father telephoned me and told me what happened. I came as soon as I could.'

'You're Jeeves' sister?' Bertie's mouth dropped open. 'Oh, dear. I'm so sorry. Here.' He flung the door wide. 'Jarvis told me you lived in Marylebone, but I had no idea how to get in touch with you. If I had just thought for a moment, I could have—'

'Please don't worry, Mr Wooster. I'm here now; that's all that matters.' She entered the flat and then engaged in a strange ballet with Bertie: he tried to alleviate her of her floral burden, but then he had to take her wet raincoat, so there was much juggling of both flowers and coat for a few moments. Finally, the coat hung on a peg, and Bertie held the flowers while Catherine smoothed her tweed skirt into place.

She was quite a tall woman, nearly as tall as Bertie's six-two, and she had the same raven-dark hair as Jeeves did, although hers was longer, of course. The slightly crooked nose, the dark blue eyes, the placid expression. Yes, Bertie knew if he had just studied her for a few seconds, the resemblance would have been clear.

Bertie looked down into the paper cone while he locked the door once more. 'Cheery bunch here,' he remarked. He unwrapped the newsprint, revealing bright, raindrop-dotted yellow petals. 'Shall I find a vase for them?'

'If you would, please,' Catherine said, clutching her pocketbook before her. 'Daffodils. They're Reginald's favourite.'

With a faint nod, Bertie slid into the kitchen. To think that Jeeves had a favourite flower. How odd. Now where, Bertie wondered, would vases be kept in one's kitchen?

He had been digging fruitlessly under the sink for some minutes when a soft cough sounded behind him. It sounded so like Jeeves' polite cough that Bertie hit his head on the underside of the cabinetry in his haste to extricate himself.

Catherine stood there, watching him. 'I think a vase might be found in the glassware cabinet. And if I remember Reginald's preferred way of organising a kitchen...' She counted the cabinet doors and opened the third one on the left.

Behold! her flourishing hand seemed to say. Highball glasses, stemware, and crystal vases, all artfully arranged on their shelves.

'That's absolutely uncanny,' Bertie murmured, fetching a vase from a high shelf.

'Thank you, Mr Wooster.' Her passive face wobbled for a moment, and Bertie detected a touch of sadness round her eyes. 'Would it be possible to see my brother now?' she asked.

'Yes, of course. So sorry,' Bertie babbled. He bunged the daffodils in the vase with a splash of water. 'This way, Mrs Jacobs.' He led her out of the kitchen and down the hall. 'Just to warn you, he'll probably be asleep for quite awhile. And if he wakes up and says strange things, well, please don't fret. I think the medicine is playing tricks on him.'

'Hmm. Even as a child, Reggie disliked taking any sort of medicine,' Catherine said as she followed him. 'He would have rather been sick to his stomach all day than take a drop of cod liver oil.' She looked up at Bertie as they reached the bedroom door. 'He can't stand not being in control, my baby brother.'

Bertie nodded. 'Yes, I know.' He opened the door and ushered Catherine into the dim room.

'Oh.' The woman approached the bed and smoothed a strand of wayward hair from Jeeves' brow. 'He's so pale,' she whispered.

'The doctor said he'd lost a great deal of blood,' Bertie said quietly. He placed the vase of flowers on the dresser, then decided they'd be better on the bedside table. 

'Can you tell me what happened? Father didn't seem to know many details,' Catherine said, looking up at Bertie with round, lost eyes.

Bertie found himself relating the entire story again. He imagined he'd be doing this a lot for the next few weeks. Phrases like 'mad gunman' and 'daylight robbery' had become etched into his vocabulary, and each retelling seemed to grow more distant from the sharp memories that Bertie held locked in his mind. Soon, he thought, he'd have the whole thing down in under five minutes.

The key was to leave out as many details as possible. The sensation of the gun barrel on the back of his head, for example, could be left out entirely; Jeeves' sister surely wouldn't want to hear about that. And as for the way Jeeves had whispered to him incoherently about his soiled coat, that was unimportant to the task at hand. And the bit where Bertie's heart had stopped, when he thought Jeeves wasn't drawing breath? Best not to mention it at all.

'My goodness,' Catherine said when the tale was told. 'Sordid business.' Other than a little loss of colour in her cheeks, she didn't exhibit any signs of distress.

'Yes,' Bertie agreed. He vacillated between resuming his vigil at Jeeves' side and leaving the woman alone with her ailing brother. He was about to ask Catherine which she would prefer when his stomach made an embarrassingly loud growling noise.

'My word.' Catherine straightened and eyed Bertie with concern. 'Have you not eaten luncheon, Mr Wooster?'

'Ah, I'm afraid that, what with all that's been going on, I haven't. Actually, I haven't had breakfast either. Or last night's dinner. In fact, I suppose I haven't eaten since yesterday morning.' Bertie felt his face flush. 'Jeeves usually cooks, you see.'

'Sit,' Catherine commanded. Bertie immediately sat in the armchair. 'If I know Reginald, he'll have kept the larder well-stocked. I will return soon with some sustenance. You must eat, Mr Wooster, unless you wish to take to a sickbed as well.' And she marched towards the door.

'I say,' Bertie squeaked, 'you're not a tutor, by any chance?' His old Latin tutor, Mr Fillmore, had had much the same brusque attitude when it came to conjugating verbs.

Catherine regarded him haughtily over her shoulder. 'I am. And I hope you like sandwiches, because I'm no good at cooking anything complicated.' With that, she shimmered out of the bedroom just like a Jeeves. She appeared to be very glad to have a task to focus on, and Bertie didn't dare complain.

Bertie glanced down at the sleeping man in the bed. 'I suppose all the culinary abilities went to you, what?' he muttered, slumping forward with his elbows on his knees. He sat like that, watching Jeeves' chest rise and fall, until Catherine swept back in with sandwiches for herself and Bertie along with a plate of dry toast, which she placed on the dresser. 'For when Reg wakes up. He'll need to eat something,' she explained.

The sandwiches were shaved ham with toasted cheese and mustard. Bertie took a faint sniff of it before taking a bite and chewing carefully. He didn't feel very hungry despite his rumbly tummy, but he continued eating under Catherine's sharp eye. For Catherine's part, she perched on the edge of the bed while nibbling delicately at her own sandwich. The mustard was a tad on the spicy side, so much so that Bertie had to restrain from yelping when the sauce hit his tongue. His eyes watered, but he held it in so as not to insult Catherine.

'I wonder where you found this mustard,' Bertie said after a few swallows of the food. 'It doesn't taste like anything I've ever eaten. Are you sure it hasn't gone off?'

Catherine laughed. 'No, it's a brand Reg prefers. It's from Norfolk. He always keeps some on hand.'

Bertie chewed thoughtfully. 'Do you know, Mrs Jacobs, I've lived under this roof with Jeeves for years and I never knew he had a preferred mustard? Or a favourite flower? Or a father or a first name, for that matter.' He dabbed at his mouth with the provided serviette. 'I had considered myself very chummy with Jeeves, more so than any of my friends are with their own valets. But now I see how little I bothered to learn about him.' He looked up to see a blank mask on Catherine's face. 'You must think me an awful person,' he said.

'No, Mr Wooster,' Catherine sighed. 'Reginald was never very forthcoming, even as a young man. I'm certain you are as warm and friendly towards him as any employer could be. But Reggie wouldn't allow it to go any further than that. It's just his way.'

'I suppose you're right,' Bertie said, and finished his sandwich. The mustard, once you got used to it, was actually fairly delicious. It certainly cleared the sinuses.

They passed several hours together, chatting about this and that, mostly Jeeves of course. Bertie found Catherine to be quite intelligent, though that quality in a woman could sometimes be mistaken for coldness. Still, he enjoyed her company; it was preferable to the long hours sitting by Jeeves' side alone and going slowly mad. At one point, their talk turned to childhood pets. Jeeves had collected grasshoppers in jars, something Bertie couldn't begin to fathom.

'Thank you for the meal,' he told Catherine after a lull in their conversation. 'It seems I'm constantly relying on one Jeeves or another to keep me in good health.'

Catherine smiled at him, and Bertie got a glimpse of what Jeeves might look like if he ever chose to grin widely. 'I should be the one thanking you, Mr Wooster. You've given Reggie your room when he could be stuck in that awful hospital wing. I don't know if you've ever been, but it's not the sort of place I'd want my brother staying.'

Bertie said, 'To be honest, I have no notion of the current standards of hospitals. I know it sounds strange, but I feel as if I can't let Jeeves out of my sight. I was only being selfish when I forced the doctor to let him stay here.'

'I'm glad you did. Your instincts proved correct,' Catherine assured.

'Well, yes, but they don't always, do they?' Bertie said softly, thinking of how he'd stupidly stopped when that man in the alley called to him. He examined the pattern of crumbs on his empty plate, then stood abruptly. 'I'll just put this away, then.'

'Your presence is not unwelcome, Mr Wooster,' Catherine said, 'but if you would like, I could stay with Reggie while you get some rest.' She furrowed her brow, just as Jeeves did when he was deeply concerned. 'You look tired.'

'Me? Tired?' Bertie frowned as if the idea was foreign. 'No, no, I'm not tired in the least. I'll be back in a jiffy.' And with that, he excused himself.


	6. Chapter 6

Bertie walked down the hallway, perhaps not with a spring in his step, but steadier than any of the previous hours. A Jeeves was under his roof once more, awake and alert and taking control. It felt good to have her, even if she was now a Jacobs _née_ Jeeves.

He was nearly to the kitchen when Bertie heard the doorbell ring. This time, instead of the single, dignified peal from Catherine, it sounded like it was being jabbed repeatedly. Bertie froze behind the standard lamp with the plate still in his hand.

Catherine emerged from the bedroom after the fifth or sixth ring. 'Mr Wooster? It sounds as if someone's at the door,' she called out to him.

'Oh?' Bertie worked his tongue round in his dry mouth. Only an insane, bloodthirsty madman would ring a doorbell like that, he was certain.

'Shall I answer it?' She had to shout loudly to be heard over the racket.

The door of the guest room slammed open, and an angry Mrs Fennaweave appeared swathed in a dour-looking dressing gown. 'What is all this commotion?' she bellowed.

'Oh, hullo,' Catherine yelled over the ringing. 'I'm Catherine Jacobs. My brother is—'

'A pleasure,' Mrs Fennaweave muttered at her before continuing to assail Bertie with her foghorn voice. 'Will you please answer that infernal doorbell, Mr Wooster? I haven't had a moment's rest all day!'

In the end, it was decided among the three of them that Catherine would answer the door. She did so, and the buzzing of the bell immediately stopped. Bertie peeked from behind the lampshade to see a gigantic mountain of a man step over the threshold. Bertie shook like a leaf.

'Catherine,' the man said in a strangely small voice, 'how is he? Has he—?'

'Reg is all right, Father. Take a breath.' Catherine opened her arms and the behemoth embraced her in return.

'Oh, thank the Lord,' he sighed.

Upon closer inspection, Bertie realised this was indeed the man he had seen in the severe photograph on Jeeves' dresser. Jeeves the Elder was even taller than the usual model, if you can credit it. And amazingly, he didn't share the dark features of his children; rather, a shock of copper-red hair was revealed when he removed his hat. Bertie vaguely remembered Jeeves once remarking on redheads, how they were not to be trusted. Did that only apply to females, or did this Mr Jeeves fall into the same category as well? Bertie placed his crumb-dusted plate on a bookshelf; the kitchen was too far away; he wanted to keep an eye on everything.

'Can I see him?' the father pleaded, addressing his daughter only.

'Of course,' Catherine soothed.

'Certainly not!' Mrs Fennaweave struck back. 'The patient is supposed to be resting. He cannot take all the strain and excitement of crowds coming in and out.'

Bertie opened his mouth to protest, to try to reason with the Draconian nursemaid, but Catherine beat him to it.

'We are Reginald's family and we have every right to be with him,' she said in a low, cold voice. Her hand gripped her father's arm, and she steered him by Mrs Fennaweave. 'On your expert advice, we will be sure not to disturb him. But I'll be _damned_ if I let you keep us from his bedside. Come on, Father.'

And the Jeeveses shimmered off. Bertie blinked; the Jeeves women were quite the firebrands.

'Well, I never!' Mrs Fennaweave sputtered. She rounded on Bertie with clenched fists. 'Shall I be expected to work under such conditions, Mr Wooster? This is completely uncalled for. Totally out of bounds.'

To be frank, Bertie thought the shriveled shrew has deserved a good ticking off. She was a mean woman and scowled like the dickens. But if something were to go wrong, and Jeeves needed help, well, she was his best hope. So Bertie attempted to calm her.

'They said they'd be quiet,' he offered.

Mrs Fennaweave gave a low growl like an angry terrier and stormed off down the hall. Bertie could hear the click of a carpetbag clasp. He peeked into the guest room and saw Mrs Fennaweave stuffing her black skirts and blouses into the bag's gaping maw.

'Oh, surely you can't leave!' he cried, pushing through the doorway. 'Please, Mrs Fennaweave, stay. We need you here.'

'I'm too old and too tired for this sort of nonsense,' she muttered, balling up a pair of stockings and tossing them in as well. 'Have your doorman fetch a cab for me; I'm going right this instant.'

'Look, I'm sorry about Catherine and Mr Jeeves. They've had a nasty shock, and I'm sure they're just worried about—'

'Yes, yes, you're all _very_ worried about the valet. It's _extremely_ impressive; one could nearly be fooled into thinking you give a blasted thought to his health!' Mrs Fennaweave spat, whirling on Bertie like a rabid swan. 

Bertie stood there with his mouth hanging open. The nurse nodded briskly at him in dismissal and returned to her packing.

'Now see here,' Bertie said to her ramrod back, his voice quiet. 'I am thinking of Jeeves' health. I've been thinking of nothing else. That's why I need you to stay and attend to him, despite the fact that, well, your bedside manner borders on that of a military attack dog.' He watched her hands slow in her messing round with the bag. 'I just want Jeeves better. You're the only one I can trust with that.'

'You keep saying no other valet will do. You want him better so you can put him back to work as soon as possible, I suppose?' she asked archly, not turning to face him.

'No.' Bertie frowned, his words coming out as a whine. 'Why would I want to do that? He tore out those stitches so easily today. I wouldn't dare risk it.'

Mrs Fennaweave did turn then and gave Bertie an ocular measurement against some unseen yardstick. 'I've seen plenty of gentlemen act anything but kind towards their hired help,' she said, still stiff in her tone.

'I'm not one of them.' Bertie spread his hands out to his sides and welcomed her critique. She must have seen something she liked, because she finally nodded and put the carpetbag down.

'My husband was a footman,' she said as she slowly unpacked once more. 'Broke his leg in the service of an earl and had to go back to work before the bone was properly healed. Died of inflammation, he did. We'd only been married three years.' 

'I'm sorry,' Bertie said, though it seemed awfully inadequate.

'I'm going to try to sleep once more,' the nurse declared with a sniff. 'Good night, Mr Wooster.'

'Good night, Mrs Fennaweave.' Bertie closed the door behind himself after getting one last glimpse of the old woman standing like a sentinel beside the bed in her dark dressing gown, completely motionless.

Bertie crept down the hallway, pausing at his bedroom door to listen. All was silent on the other side, and he pushed on through, thinking perhaps the Jeeveses would like some company during their bedside vigil. He found Jeeves still sleeping where he'd left him in the center of the bed. His father was now sitting in the armchair, his hands clasped under his lips, his eyes not leaving his son. Catherine stood beside her father. Her hand was rubbing soothing circles over his black-coated shoulder.

'I haven't taken your overcoat,' Bertie said, his face heating with embarrassment. He took a step forward. 'Here, I can hang it—'

'I'm fine,' the elder Jeeves murmured. His lips were the only thing that moved.

'Let Mr Wooster take your coat, Father,' Catherine admonished. 'It's warm in here.'

'Is it?' he answered blandly, his eyes like clouded glass, reflecting nothing.

Catherine pursed her lips. 'You can see for yourself that Reg is all right. Go get some rest.'

'I want to be here when he opens his eyes,' Mr Jeeves said.

'Do you really think that's best?' Catherine said sharply. The elder butler finally looked up at his daughter while Bertie wondered at her scathing tone. 'You really should get some rest after such a long journey,' she said more gently.

'Perhaps...perhaps you're right,' Mr Jeeves said.

'Would you like a cup of tea?' Bertie blurted out for want of anything else to break the tension. 'I was about to make myself a pot.'

'Yes, that would be refreshing. Although I would gladly make it, Mr Wooster.' The butler rose from his chair to his full impressive height. 'I know Lord Wingfield wouldn't recognise a kettle if it hit him in the face, and if Reg has been doing his job properly, neither would you.' He chuckled, a false sound like a rattle inside a steam engine.

Bertie's answering smile danced with frayed nerves. 'Yes. Quite.'

He ushered the monolith of a man out the door, but not before casting a questioning glance back at the feminine Jeeves. Catherine returned his gaze coolly and said nothing. She merely took the vacant seat at her brother's bedside.

Bertie met Mr Jeeves in the kitchen, where a pot of tea was well underway. The older man had taken off his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves, and when Bertie came ducking through the swinging door, he turned to offer him a teacup.

'Thanks very much,' Bertie said, taking it and leaning against the counter for want of a table. He'd have to see about getting a new one delivered, he supposed, but it could wait.

'I must apologise for my daughter, Mr Wooster,' Mr Jeeves said while he strained the leaves. 'She can be a bit of a hard biscuit. Shouldn't be so blunt in front of you, though she means well.'

'Oh, rather. I mean, that's all right.' Bertie watched as Mr Jeeves poured the milk and tea into his waiting cup with the same double-handed technique employed by his son. 'What did she mean, I wonder, when she said it would be best for you to biff off?' He looked up, suddenly realising what an inappropriate question that might be for a man whose son was so injured. 'That is to say, it was unexpected,' Bertie added nervously.

Mr Jeeves sighed and poured a cup for himself. 'Reg and I...he isn't as close to me as some boys are to their fathers,' he said, leaning on the counter alongside Bertie. He wrapped his large hands round the steaming teacup and gazed into its depths. 'No, I suppose if I were to be completely honest, I couldn't say whether Reggie would want me here with him or not. But he's my son, Mr Wooster, and I can't stay away. Not when he's in trouble. Even if he hates me.'

'Jeeves never mentioned anything of the sort to me,' Bertie said. He felt his brow creasing with concern; yet another thing he hadn't known about his valet.

'He wouldn't, would he?' Mr Jeeves mused, sipping at his tea. 'Always been a quiet boy ever since he were a lad. Took after his mother in that respect. They could sit for hours in the late evenings, poring over books of poetry and history together, never saying a word. They'd sit side-by-side on the hearth, their heads bent over the pages. All that firelight shining off their black hair. Always so silent.'

Bertie quirked his lips. 'I have a rather different impression of your son,' he admitted. 'When he gets on one of his verbal jaunts, be it on Shakespeare or Milton or some other brainy subject, I can't get him to clam up.'

'Smart as the blazes, is Reg,' Mr Jeeves agreed with a smirk of pride. 'Just like his mum. She could walk into a room and notice every piece of dust, every tilted picture frame, and have it all put to rights in under a minute. The best housekeeper I'd ever seen, Helen. And the most beautiful woman I'd ever laid eyes on. Lord knows why she chose to marry me, a daft country butler.' He smiled sadly and toyed with his cup. 'Reg was the apple of her eye. They understood each other. Could say what they meant with just a look. I sometimes wished I could be allowed in that little world they had, but it was beyond me.'

Mr Jeeves rubbed at his sharp-angled jaw. 'He had dreams, you know, when he was still a child, of leaving Wingfield Hall. I told him, "Reggie, the Jeeves family has been serving here for generations. You already have a place. You should be thankful."' The older man shook his head. 'But Reg was stubborn. He wanted to see the world, and his mother's books kept feeding him ideas. Things were strained between us, but my wife made peace. She was so good at doing that. So calm.

'But when Helen died, bless her soul, Reggie was like a ship without a harbour. He was lost, angry, angry at me, angry at the scarlet fever that took his mother. Just a mass of ice-cold rage. We exchanged words, and Lord forgive me, I said some things I shouldn't have.'

Mr Jeeves blinked several times in rapid succession and kept his gaze on his cup. Bertie couldn't stop himself from asking, 'What was it you said?'

The older man's voice was small and tight: 'I told him if he wanted to run away from Wingfield Hall so badly, he could start immediately. I secured him a position as page-boy at a girls' school three counties distant and he accepted without hesitation. I thought perhaps, in time, he'd return to the Hall and take up the tradition as I had, but he never came back. We haven't spoken properly in years.'

The man set his cup aside and pressed his hands to his face. A choked sob slipped through the cracks of his fingers. 'I sent away my only son, and he could have died before I told him how sorry I am. God, I am so sorry.'

Bertie could stand it no longer. He put down his tea. 'Mr Jeeves,' he said, then gave up on saying anything. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms round the huge shoulders. Mr Jeeves didn't hesitate. He clung to Bertie with bruising force, but Bertie held on and let him sob into his shoulder.

Time passed strangely. It may have been minutes or hours before Bertie heard Catherine's soft cough. He turned to see her standing in the doorway.

'He's awake,' she said.

'Oh!' Mr Jeeves gasped, dashing a hand across his eyes and standing up straight.

'He's asking for you.' She pointed to Bertie.

Bertie pointed at himself, grimacing at the pain that Jeeves' father must be feeling at that slight. But Mr Jeeves said, 'No, no. It's all right. Go, and thank you, Mr Wooster.'

So he legged it.

Bertie poked his head into the master bedroom to find Jeeves still laying in bed, his eyes open, if not entirely focused. A plate with nothing but toast crumbs sat on the side table; Bertie was pleased to see that Catherine had gotten her brother to eat something. Bertie could have danced in relief if he wasn't so bally tired; he had been afraid that Jeeves might still be under the spell of the medicine, speaking in riddles and acting all wrong.

'My sister tells me my father is here,' Jeeves said in a hoarse but lucid voice.

'Hang on, old thing.' Bertie poured a glass of water from the jug on the nightstand and handed it over.

Jeeves took it, but didn't drink. 'Sir. Did you contact him?' he asked.

Bertie stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked on his heels. 'I thought it was the only proper thing to do, Jeeves. You did tell me to call the Ganymede and track down the elder Jeeves, what?'

'I meant, sir, in the event of—' Jeeves paused and took an annoyed drink from the water glass. 'Only if something happened to me, sir, did I expect the necessity of my father's arrival.' A grimace of pain passed over his face, and his hand pressed to his injured side.

'Something did happen to you,' Bertie snapped. 'Or has the bullet thingummy slipped your mind?'

Jeeves looked up then, staring with all the weight of his tired, red-rimmed eyes. 'I don't wish my father to see me like this, sir,' he said quietly. 'Please tell him to return to Norfolk.'

'I'll do no such thing, Jeeves.' Bertie turned his back on the valet and busied himself with rearranging the daffodils in their vase with shaking hands. 'Jeeves Senior is torn to pieces over this whole thing. He's more worried about you than I can even express. He practically flew down here when he heard the news, and I'm not about to send him packing now.'

'Sir.' Jeeves' voice seemed to be gaining some of its old clout. 'With all due respect, this is not your concern. This is my family, and I—'

Bertie whirled on him. 'Do you have _any_ idea how close it was!?' he cried. 'A few hours ago, you were in a drugged haze, telling me...' Bertie bit his lip. No reason to repeat the ghoulish conversation. He tried another tack. 'For God's sake, Jeeves, are you going to wait until you really do die to speak to your father?'

'You don't understand,' Jeeves said with stern refusal. 'He is not an ideal parent.'

'At least you've got one!' Bertie shouted. He felt more tears spilling over his cheeks and he let them fall. In the heavy, tense silence between them, Jeeves looked away, his eyes laden with what Bertie hoped was guilt.

'If you don't want to see him tonight,' Bertie whispered through his tears, 'I will tell him you've gone back to sleep. But I won't send him away. Not when he's come so far to speak to you.'

Jeeves cleared his throat and, though it seemed to take all his effort, spoke in a clear, deep voice. 'I will allow my father to see me, sir. But know that it is only out of respect for your wishes that I will do so. My current situation changes nothing between my father and me. He will always be a cold, narrow-minded man.'

'He seems normal enough to me, Jeeves.' Bertie wiped his sleeve across his face. 'Maybe time has changed him.'

Jeeves looked up with dark eyes, hollow, ringed with shadows. 'Clarence Jeeves will never change, sir.'

'Well.' Bertie frowned. 'That makes two of you.'

Jeeves turned his head on the pillow, his eyes sliding shut. 'I'm sorry to have upset you, sir,' he said. 'If you would show my father in, I believe I have some strength left before I must sleep again.'

'Right.' Bertie paused in the doorway, his hand on the frame. 'Do you...want me to hover round or will you be all right alone with Jeeves the Elder?'

'Perhaps you should get some sleep, sir,' Jeeves sighed. 'I will manage, thank you.'

So Bertie breezed back into the kitchen to impart the news. He felt a little like a messenger in Macbeth, flitting from scene to scene at just the right moment to deliver one or two lines about all the wild action that was to be taking place off-stage, and then he was done. Mr Jeeves practically ran to the master bedroom, leaving Bertie in the dust, as it were.

Catherine was bent over the sink, washing up the teacups and abandoned sandwich plate. 'You wouldn't follow Reg's orders either?' she asked with an impressed eyebrow. 'You're a stronger man than I originally perceived, Mr Wooster.'

'Oh, not really.' Bertie dabbed at his still-leaky eyes with his wrists. 'Apparently all I need to do is turn on the manly waterworks and Jeeves begs off. Not that I can blame him. Nothing so disconcerting as a red-faced, puffy-eyed Wooster.'

'Reggie has never dealt with tears very well. You'd be wise to use them more often.' Catherine turned the tap off and dried her hands on a tea towel. 'I'd better get back to the house now,' she sighed.

Bertie looked at the wall clock. It was getting on towards the late evening. 'You could stay if you like. Erm, you can have Jeeves' room. No trouble at all.'

'No, my girls will be home soon. I need to be there; my husband couldn't make supper if you handed him a manual.' Catherine swept out into the hallway and Bertie followed on shaking legs.

'But you will come back?' he said in a pleading tone.

'If I can manage to get away.' Catherine fixed her hat on her head and looked over Bertie's slack expression. 'Don't be afraid, Mr Wooster. You're managing everything very well.'

'If this is "well" then I don't wish to see the other side of the spectrum,' Bertie mumbled. 'I've got a wounded valet, a rabid nurse, and a shaky giant of a man in the house, and no idea what to do with them all.'

Catherine favoured Bertie with a fond smile and leaned forward to place a sisterly kiss on his cheek. 'I can see why Reggie chose you,' she said. 'You have a good heart, Mr Wooster. You'll be able to handle this and more.'

Bertie blushed at the bold compliment. 'Good bye, Mrs Jacobs.'

'Good bye, Mr Wooster.' And the door closed on Bertie's best ally.


	7. Chapter 7

Once the door closed on Jeeves' sister, the flat was quiet again. The only sound Bertie could hear was the faintest hum of conversation coming from the master bedroom. Though it wasn't the done thing to listen at keyholes, curiosity got the better of him, and Bertie crept to the bedroom door to hear the conversation between the long-separated father and son.

It was actually rather dull. A lot of 'How are you feelings?' and 'Much improved, thank yous'. Bertie had the distinct urge to throw the door open and yell, 'Say what you bally well mean, the both of you!'

But the next statement, spoken in the elder Jeeves' north-country drawl, gave Bertie pause. 'This Mr Wooster seems a fair sort. Do you think you'll be inclined to stick with this one, then?'

Bertie could hear Jeeves' sigh clean through the door. 'Please, Father, let's not have this discussion again.'

'It's no discussion, Reg. I merely mention on account of, last I heard, you were leaving your tenth, or was it eleventh, master?'

'That was a long time ago,' Jeeves answered.

'Yes, but you were always a restless child, Reggie. Always wanting to go beyond the farthest hill, always wondering what was in the deepest part of the ocean.'

'Mr Wooster allows me an indulgent amount of time to travel, should I wish to do so.'

'That's not the point. The point is, I don't see why you won't—'

'If I have said this once, I have said it a thousand times: I cannot return to Wingfield and take up the post of an underbutler,' Jeeves' voice was doubly weary. Not only was his bodily exhaustion straining his words, but also the added weight of what sounded like an oft-repeated argument.

'Is Wingfield Hall so beneath you now?' Mr Jeeves said. 'Do you laugh about it with the boys at the club?'

'Of course not,' Jeeves said. 'I only wish to stay in Mr Wooster's employ. Father, I'm _good_ at being a valet.'

'Yes, a valet. Sailing to America at the drop of a hat, walking the streets of London at all hours. That's what got you here, you know.' Bertie could hear the rage leaking into the pater's voice. 'Your grandfather was a butler, and his father was a butler. If only you would settle down where you belong, away from all the madness of this city. I only want you to be—'

'Father.' Jeeves was silent for a long moment, and Bertie peeked into the crack of the door to see what was happening. Jeeves had taken hold of his father's wrist with one hand and had pressed a finger to own his lips in a gesture for quiet. In an instant, Jeeves' sharp eyes darted to the doorway and caught Bertie standing there.

Bertie flushed. The silence was for his benefit, he knew. Any topic of conversation that would upset the young master was apparently Off Limits. Bertie made to leave the doorway to escape, ashamed at being caught spying, but then Mr Jeeves followed his son's line of sight to find Bertie as well.

'Mr Wooster,' he said as if he had been jolted by a thunderbolt.

Bertie shuffled into the room a pace, feeling the need to explain the intrusion. 'Apologies, my good men. Just wanted to make certain...' And Bertie trailed off, not knowing how to say 'just wanted to make certain you hadn't killed each other.' Instead he toed his foot into the carpeting and said, 'You were so tearful earlier in the kitchen, Mr Jeeves. I only wanted to see that you were feeling better.'

Jeeves' eyebrows quirked in a way that showed his incredulity. 'My father has never shed a tear in his life, sir. Surely you're mistaken.'

But his father turned a shamed red, nearly matching his hair. 'Oh, Reggie,' he sighed, 'that's absolute tosh. Why, when your mother died, I must have let loose enough moisture to drown everyone in King's Lynn.'

Bertie kept to the edges of the room to better watch the action playing out. It may have been his vivid imagination, but he could swear he saw Jeeves' admonishing hand tighten on the elder man's arm. 'No, that is not possible.' His voice was grave and firm. 'You were the very picture of composed dignity during that time.'

Mr Jeeves gave a harsh chuckle. 'Well, you would have been too. Three children to look after, two of them still living at the Hall, a master who had fallen on hard times. A widower butler is no prize, Reg.' He squeezed his shaking hands round his son's grasping fingers. 'I couldn't go to pieces in front of Mr Wingfield and the rest of the staff. One misstep and I would have been sacked.'

'But I had thought you were made of stone,' Jeeves whispered to his father. 'I had thought you...'

'Thought I didn't care about your mother's passing? Oh, Lord,' he answered. 'I was bawling my eyes out every night after I put you to bed. Cath heard me once. I tried to tell her I'd pinched my finger in the door. As if she'd believe me; always been a sharp girl.'

Bertie had to strain his ears to hear Jeeves' next words: 'Oh, Father.'

A tear, silvery in the waning cloudy-day light from the window, slid down the old man's cheek. 'I'll cry in front of your sister, Reg. And I'll even shed a tear in front of Mr Wooster here, a complete stranger to me, to be sure. But I can't stand letting you see me like this. You're so like your mother. And she could never abide seeing a man cry.' He took a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and blew his nose in that loud locomotive way that only fathers can manage.

Jeeves leaned forward carefully, one hand pressed to his injured side, and wrapped his free arm round his father's shoulder. The two Jeeves men sat there, one whimpering quietly ('I loved her so, so much. I did...'), the other murmuring soothing words ('It's all right. I know. It's all right now.') while Bertie watched in fascination. Then, perceiving that no chairs were going to be flung at anybody's head that night, he crept out of the room.

Because he wasn't sure if Mr Jeeves would have need of the bed in the servant's quarters or if he intended to sit up all night with his son, Bertie chose to curl up on the chesterfield. He closed his eyes and listened to the low, unintelligible murmur of Jeevesian voices from down the hall and, soothed by this, he managed to fall into a light sleep.

He knew instantly that this had been a poor idea.

His dreams were once again plagued by vague shapes, nameless fears, and dark shadows. At one moment, Bertie was running down a narrow alley, pursued by the man with the gun, who had grown to nightmarish proportions with lizard-like limbs and a snapping tail. The next moment, Bertie was in the house of his boyhood, the lacy curtains of the old playroom's window swaying in the breeze.

'Why are you so out of breath, Bertie?' his sister, as small as she had been age nine, asked. Her building blocks were spread out before her in disarray: broken city towers. 'What have you been running from?'

'The billfold,' the curtains whispered. 'Give it here.'

'Bertie? Is that you?' his father called from down the hall, an invisible, disembodied voice. Bertie turned towards it, his mouth hanging open.

'Father's been looking for you forever,' his sister whispered. 'He's found you now, though, hasn't he?'

The roof cracked open, and the sky cracked open, and it thundered and rained down into the house of Bertram Wooster's childhood. His sister and her blocks melted away along with the walls. Back in the alley, kneeling in a puddle. Everything wet. Jeeves on the ground before him, face turned away on the cobblestones. Not rain but blood. Coming down in buckets.

'No!' Bertie cried, his eyes flying open. His arm flailed out before him, nearly striking a perturbed-looking Mrs Fennaweave in the face.

'Control yourself, Mr Wooster,' she barked. 'I was only checking to see if you were breathing. You were sleeping like a dead man. Scared the wits out of me.'

'Mrs Fennaweave,' Bertie panted. 'I'm sorry. I was having the most awful dream.'

'Mmm. Yes.' Mrs Fennaweave looked unimpressed with this explanation. 'Dr Hollis should be stopping by today to check up on the patient. You might want to change into a clean suit, Mr Wooster.' She gave a pointed look to the suit that Bertie was still wearing after having slept in it for two nights straight.

'Quite. And a quick bath probably wouldn't go amiss, what?' Bertie gave her a sheepish half-smile. He rolled himself from the chesterfield and brought a hand up to scrub at his sleep-filled eyes. A strip of fabric hung on his wrist, caught in his right cuff-link: the yellow tie. Bertie stared at it, hanging there like an exotic, poisonous snake.

'Mr Wooster?' Mrs Fennaweave snapped, and Bertie realised she must have been trying to get his attention for some time.

'Er, yes?'

'I was attempting to tell you that, if you wish to bathe in the master bathroom, you will have to wait a few minutes. I'll be giving the patient a sponge bath in your rooms,' she said.

Bertie, who had been busy trying to untangle the yellow tie from his arm, paused to stare at her, his mouth agape. 'Give him a what?'

'A _sponge_ bath.' Mrs Fennaweave nodded to the burden in her arms: a small basin filled with water and a soft sponge, its yellow body already turning a dark brown as it soaked.

'Oh, really now. Is that strictly necessary?' Bertie perched his fists on his hips, forgetting the tie that dangled like a banner from his right wrist.

'I have one word for you, Mr Wooster: in-fect-ion,' the nurse said. 'The patient must be kept clean and comfortable.'

'Well, you can't possibly give Jeeves a sponge bath,' Bertie sputtered. 'His, his modesty would forbid it!'

'I am a professional,' the woman said with cold precision. 'I have seen plenty of bare male bodies in my time. Believe me when I tell you there is nothing to be coy about.'

'Look, it's just—' Bertie pursed his lips. 'Can't you let me do it?'

Mrs Fennaweave rolled her eyes in a most exaggerated manner. 'Why in the world would you not allow _me_ , the person to whom you've entrusted your valet's care, to do my job?'

All Bertie knew was that, if their positions were reversed and it was himself laid up in bed, Bertie would expect Jeeves to keep people like Mrs Fennaweave from scrubbing the Wooster corpus a fresh and rosy hue. The humiliation involved would be intolerable.

Instead of revealing all this to the dour nurse, Bertie said with some modicum of tact, 'I only want to help. I imagine you have plenty of other tasks to see to before the doctor arrives, what?'

Mrs Fennaweave frowned. 'Well, I would like to make myself an egg or two. I haven't eaten for—'

'Right! Well.' Bertie yanked the washbasin from her wrinkled hands. 'You leave this to Bertram, then.'

The nurse frowned, but relented with a hesitant nod. 'Remember to be gentle round the wound,' she ordered.

'Certainly.'

'And clean behind his ears.'

'Wouldn't dream of giving that a miss.'

'And come get me if you see any redness or puffiness near the new stitches.'

'Yes, of course.'

'And don't go into the valet's quarters! I put the old butler in there to get some blasted sleep. He was up half the night, twittering away with the patient. I had to chase him off so everyone could get some shut-eye.'

'Jeeves Senior in Jeeves Junior's room. Got it.'

With a final glare, the black-clad nurse bustled into the kitchen. Bertie took this opportunity to free his hand from the yellow tie and find a cigarette lighter in the case on the drinks cabinet. The lighter's wheel clicked once, twice before the wick ignited, and the yellow tie caught after only a moment of dangling it over the orange flame. Bertie watched the fire creep up the sunny fabric, then, satisfied it was burning steadily, he threw it in the fireplace grate. He did not look back.

Bertie clutched the basin of warm water to his chest and made his way to the master bedroom, careful not to slosh. He found Jeeves sitting up in bed, a drawn look across his face.

'Good morning, sir,' he said. Then, seeing Bertie's wrinkled shirt, 'I must be overly tired and imagining things, for it appears your clothes have been slept in.'

'Stretched out on the sofa last night, I'm afraid,' Bertie said apologetically. 'We have a full house here, Jeeves. Fennaweave in the guest room, your father in your room...'

'My father did not retire until the early morning hours, sir.' Jeeves said this only half-admonishing. 'You need a good night's rest; if I may be so bold, you are not looking your freshest, sir.'

Bertie set the washbasin on the bedside table with a shrug. 'Can't seem to close the peepers much these days, Jeeves. Now, let's see what we've got here.' He lifted the damp sponge from the basin and squeezed it experimentally, letting the excess water fall back into the pan.

Jeeves seemed to grasp what the instruments of cleanliness were for. 'Sir, if I may—' he began.

'Jeeves, you have two options. I invite you to choose for yourself. Either I will be washing you down this morning, or the aged Mrs Fennaweave will.' Bertie turned and brandished his sponge. 'It won't bruise my pride if you'd rather not have me as your scrubber, but I would hazard a guess that no man, even you, would relish the thought of the Nurse of the Baskervilles soaping you up.'

'I'd rather wash myself, sir,' Jeeves protested.

Bertie shook his head gravely. 'Not one of the choices, I'm afraid. I have no doubt Mrs Fennaweave would eat me alive if she found out I'd let you carry out this office yourself. You're still healing, Jeeves. You can't be twisting and bending all over the place.'

Still Jeeves hesitated. 'Could this not wait another day, sir?'

'You've already been lying in bed for two days, Jeeves. I'm afraid now's the time for it.'

'Has it really been that long?' he asked, absently bringing a hand up to feel the dark prick of stubble on his chiseled jaw. Faced with this evidence, Jeeves weakly pushed the bedclothes down to his waist. His bare chest, still swathed in bandages, rose and fell with each laboured breath; Bertie watched it carefully.

'Yes, I know. It feels like it was only an hour ago that I put on that...' Bertie remembered the yellow tie, now smouldering in the fireplace if there was any luck in the world. 'Well, let's not think of it, what?'

After a moment of gentle negotiation, it was decided that the best way to go about this bathing business was to manoeuvre Jeeves to sit on the edge of the mattress with a towel scooted underneath his bottom. Jeeves draped his legs over the side of the bed slowly, holding his injured side with one hand and pinching his eyes shut as he moved.

'All right?' Bertie asked, lending a hand on his shoulder.

Jeeves nodded tightly. 'After so many hours of repose, the muscles of the human body undoubtedly constrict, sir. I am certain small movements will—' He stopped with a sudden gasp, clutching at his flank. 'Oh, god,' he cursed under his breath. Bertie froze in shock; he had never heard Jeeves take the Lord's n. in v. before.

'Jeeves? What should I do?' Bertie fluttered round the seated man, wondering if he should place his hands to the afflicted area, or perhaps Jeeves' shoulders again, or perhaps nowhere at all.

'Nothing, sir. I apologise. Mrs Fennaweave informed me that the cracked rib would be painful for many more days, but this...' He took a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes still closed against the pain. 'This is worse than I imagined, sir,' he finally admitted.

'Where does it hurt?' Bertie asked, thinking, like a child might, that he could solve the problem if only he knew where it was hiding.

'In all places,' Jeeves said through gritted teeth. 'Every breath is like a fire racing along each nerve.' It was a testament to how much of Jeeves control was slipping: he had answered Bertie's question without even the barest veil of optimism thrown over it.

'Jeeves.' Bertie eyed the valet seriously. 'You must allow the good nurse to give you more medicine. I know you hate how it makes you feel; dash it, I'm not too wild about what it does to you either. But if it takes away some of this awful pain, then you need it.'

'No,' Jeeves growled, looking up with eyes red with the fever of determination. 'My body has failed me. I won't allow my mind to follow the same path.'

'So you'd rather sit here in agony than act a tad cuckoo for an hour or so?'

'Yes, sir, I would.' Jeeves' tone brokered no argument.

Bertie fidgeted with the sponge under the intense weight of Jeeves' eyes. 'Well, if you insist. It is your body and mind, after all. But I do wish you'd let Mrs Fennaweave give you the morphine. It would soothe me to know you weren't in such a bally awful way.'

Jeeves sighed and moved gingerly to sit on the very edge of the mattress. 'If the pain gets any worse, sir, I promise to acquiesce to your wishes. For now, however, I can manage.'

'You drive a hard bargain, Jeeves. But no matter; it's bath time, what?' And Bertie waggled his sponge in the air in a way that meant, 'You've got what's coming to you.'


	8. Chapter 8

Before the soaping and sponging could begin, Bertie had to unwind the strips of white cotton from Jeeves' torso. A roll of fresh bandages and gauze were sitting on the dresser. Good, Bertie thought; he could reapply the dressings when this was over. But now the problem of Jeeves' pyjamas confronted him.

'I'll just get these, shall I?' Bertie asked with an affected air of ease, as if young gentlemen pulled the pyjama bottoms from valets every day. He didn't want Jeeves to put up a fuss and try to do it himself; the strain might prove too much. And he didn't want to embarrass the man any more than he was already. So Bertie knelt very quickly and tugged the brushed cotton pyjamas from Jeeves' legs. Jeeves didn't say anything, just continued supporting himself with arms locked straight on either side, hands planted firmly on the covers and toweling, his eyes riveted to a far corner of the room.

Bertie pulled a bit of the bedsheet over Jeeves' lap before going any further. His eyes darted over the man's form, checking to see that the stitches looked strong and clean and that the wound was not reddening. It seemed to be doing well enough; there was some deep, ugly bruising, but it didn't look like the angry red of infection. Bertie sighed in relief and got to his feet once more.

Without his pressed clothes and slicked hair, Jeeves seemed somehow smaller. That is, his arms and legs were as lean and fit as they had previously appeared; his shoulders were just as broad; his head still bulged at the back with all that overflowing intelligence. Yet Bertie's eyes had never seen him so bereft of all the trappings that made Jeeves Jeeves. Perhaps it was the other man's state of exhaustion, but he appeared to be sloping inward somehow, shrinking into something approaching a mortal man.

Bertie shook his head, clearing these morose thoughts from his mind. 'Sorry, Jeeves.' He wet the sponge again and wrung it near-dry. 'We'll be through in a jiffy.'

Bertie crawled up onto the bed on his knees in order to sit behind Jeeves. He sopped the sponge down Jeeves' nape, scrubbing away at a bit of dirt that was stuck there. That alley really had been filthy. He rinsed the sponge in the warm water and squeezed it clean.

Jeeves must have been ruminating on how to fill the awkward silence that had descended during the bathing, because he tipped his chin in the direction of the cheery vase of daffodils sitting on the bedside table. 'Did my sister bring the flowers, sir?'

'She did,' Bertie said. He swiped the sponge across Jeeves' shoulders, then dipped it in the water again. 'Cheerful, what?'

Jeeves gave a small, dignified snort. A 'hmph,' really.

'What was that "hmph" for, Jeeves?' Bertie questioned as he washed Jeeves' broad back.

'My sister gave me daffodils on my birthday this year; I was inclined to tell her that they were my favourite though, in truth, I am not very partial to the flower. They strike me as a frivolous species.' Jeeves tilted his head to the side obediently as Bertie scrubbed behind his ears.

'I say! You lied to poor Catherine?'

'Only to spare her feelings, sir.'

Bertie hummed in understanding and dragged the sponge down Jeeves' flanks, minding the stitches as Mrs Fennaweave had instructed. 'So do you have a favourite flower, or are flowers in general too much of a bother for you?'

Jeeves paused for a moment before saying, 'I have never contemplated the question, sir.' He sounded almost shocked at himself.

'Well, if you arrive at an answer in the near future, let the young master know and I'll replace the thingummy of daffodils with something else.'

'Thank you, sir. But the sentiment behind these is enough.'

There was a moment of quiet wherein Bertie ran the soaked sponge down the backs of Jeeves' arms, over the corded muscles and tendons and warm, pale skin. He watched the water bead there, causing gooseflesh to rise in spots. For his part, Jeeves busied himself by trying to arrange the bedclothes in an orderly fashion underneath his legs, as if he needed a task too. His questing hand found something in the coverlet and he ended up holding a square of bleached white silk aloft.

'Sir,' he said, 'is this your handkerchief?'

'Oh, good Lord.' Bertie took the long-lost article from Jeeves' proffering hand. 'I must have dropped it when you were put to bed. Took it out for a moment to get a smudge of—' He stopped with a frown, disquieted by the memory. 'Well. Thank you, Jeeves, for returning it to me. I've been wondering where it went.'

'I'm glad to have restored it to you, sir,' Jeeves said. He turned his head to peer over his shoulder at Bertie's hands, which were folding the wrinkled handkerchief into a neat square. 'The household would benefit greatly from a thorough cleaning so that no other items are misplaced. May I ask when the Ganymede will arrange for a replacement to—?'

'No, Jeeves, you may not,' Bertie said sharply. He dunked his sponge with more force than was necessary and began swabbing Jeeves' back once more. 'I don't need another valet. There's nothing to be done for me at the moment; it's not as if I'm going to be dressing to go to the theatre or the club anytime soon.'

'Why do you say so, sir?' Jeeves twisted his neck a touch further to meet Bertie's eye.

'Because, Jeeves, my place is here right now. You'd do the same for me, what?' He ran the sponge across Jeeves' shoulder-blades, back and forth, back and forth. It was rather hypnotic, watching the skin shift under the ministrations.

'Sir, the good nurse is here to see to my care. My father is here to raise my spirits, in his own way. Both he and my sister are available for any small household chore that might need doing for me.' Jeeves turned slowly, gingerly, and stopped Bertie's washing with a patient hand on his elbow. 'You need not attend to my sickbed, sir. I am provided for. It is for your well-being that I am concerned.'

Bertie's eyes dropped to the bedsheets and his fingers squeezed into the soft sponge. A few beads of water fell to the white linen, where they spread and stained the cloth dark. Bertie tried to calm his breathing, his rattled heartbeat.

Jeeves seemed to sense this, and he gave a questioning raise of his eyebrows.

'He knows where we are, Jeeves,' Bertie whispered. 'The name cards in my billfold. He knows.'

'Sir?'

'I, I don't pretend to be a hulking bodyguard of any kind,' Bertie said with a trembling laugh, 'but I'd feel a dashed good bit better if I stuck about the flat for the time being. There's no telling what might happen, Jeeves, if he were to—'

'Sir.' Jeeves touched his fingertips to Bertie's chin and lifted it gently. 'He will not.'

'But how do you know—?'

'He. Will. Not.' Jeeves spoke so resolutely, with such command, that Bertie was convinced that he knew something, some secret reason as to why and how the mad gunman would never step foot in Berkeley Square. Because when Jeeves spoke like that, it couldn't be anything but true, could it? 

Bertie swallowed and averted his eyes. Perhaps a few days ago he could have trusted in the rock that was Jeeves, but now? One had to question everything now. 'Were the cards removed from my billfold recently, Jeeves? Were you perhaps planning on replacing them with a new set?'

'Well, sir...'

'Are you well-versed in the habits of cash-pinching thieves? Can you say with any scholarly certainty that he wouldn't peruse the entire contents of the wallet?'

'Sir, I merely posit...'

'Do you have any cause to believe, Jeeves,' Bertie said with rising pique, 'that a complete stranger who shot you for no discernible reason would not be so loony as to come after you a second time!?'

Jeeves dropped his hand from Bertie's chin and sighed; a soft, defeated sound. 'No, sir. I suppose not.'

'Then how can you promise such things? I'm not a child, Jeeves.' Bertie clenched his jaw in an effort not to spring a leak in the ocular region. 'I'm aware of all the responsibilities we're now faced with: you with your recovery and I with the safety of the household.'

'But sir, you cannot remain inside the flat indefinitely. In time, you will need to step out into the world once more.' Jeeves took the strangled sponge from Bertie's hand and placed it back in its water bath. 'You will need to continue living your life, sir.'

Bertie gave a scowling, mirthless chuckle. 'It is kind of you, Jeeves, to classify my heretofore frivolous existence as a _life_.' He shook his head, stymieing the protest that balanced precariously on Jeeves' lips. 'And now there's Mrs Fennaweave and your father to think of. Their being here puts them at risk too.'

'Sir, if you are so convinced of the threat, should we not contact the police?' Jeeves asked.

Bertie gave a half-hearted shrug. 'Do you think they'd post a sentry at the door or something? Wouldn't they consider it an awful waste, guarding some silly ass who still keeps name cards in his billfold?'

'If the perpetrator of the crime is indeed a serial attacker as Mrs Fennaweave has told me might be the case, then the authorities will doubtlessly be eager to apprehend him at great expense.' Jeeves' hand moved slightly, and for a brief moment Bertie was convinced he was about to pat the back of Bertie's damp hand. But that was ridiculous, of course. 'You needn't shoulder this burden alone, sir. It would not be weak to request assistance.'

Bertie worked his tongue in his dry mouth. He finally got his lips round the words: 'Thank you, Jeeves.' He heaved a sigh. 'And now that you're more firmly in the land of the living, the inspector might want a word with you. I'd better give him a call.'

'A good idea, sir, though I fear I will not be much help to the police.' Jeeves faced forward once more and Bertie reached for the sponge to continue his valet-washing. 'I don't remember that day with any clarity. The last vivid memory I have is of leaving the flat; the time afterward is a blur.'

'Yes.' Bertie swallowed with some difficulty. 'I'm afflicted with much the same thing.' This was a lie, of course; it seemed that Bertie could remember nothing but the crystal-clear moments of that awful attack. Not anything helpful, like the exact hair colour of their attacker, but myriad useless details like the angle at which Jeeves' elbow was bent on the cobblestones. The images would replay in his mind's eye over and over during the course of the day, and there was no telling when or how violently the recollections would overcome him. Pondering it only made it worse. Even now, the events of the fateful morning were unfolding in his memory. He felt a stab of envy for Jeeves, who would never be able to recall that day like Bertie could.

Misdirection: that was the ticket. Not just for Jeeves but for Bertie's own sanity. 'Tell me, Jeeves,' he said, still washing his back thoroughly, 'when do you usually perform your ablutions? I don't believe I've ever heard you sloshing about in the guest bath.'

'I prefer the more efficient shower in the early morning, sir,' Jeeves answered. 'A quick hot dousing followed by a cold rinse. Most refreshing, I find.'

'And when you say early morning you mean...?'

'Five is when I usually rise to dress and perform the daily chores.'

'Good Lord!' Bertie ceased his scrubbing to marvel at Jeeves' shoulders for a moment. How the devil did they hold so much at such early hours? 'Jeeves, you must be going stir crazy, sitting in bed all day long if that's the sort of schedule to which you're accustomed.'

Jeeves gave a short nod. 'I admit to a certain dislike of the situation, beyond the obvious.'

Yes, the obvious. Bertie bit his lip, remembering with chilling clarity how Jeeves had been what a doctor might call foxed to the tonsils on morphine. That strange talk they had about Jeeves' imagined death still haunted Bertie's mind. Of course, a cove was apt to say all sorts of rubbish while under the influence of pain medicine; Bertie, for instance, recalled declaring himself King of Sheba during a run-in with laughing gas after having a tooth pulled at the dentist's.

But something that Jeeves had said still niggled. Bertie attempted to swab at his valet nonchalantly and said, 'Jeeves, why don't you think you'll go to Heaven when you leave this earth?'

Jeeves' spine stiffened under Bertie's hands. 'Sir?'

'You mentioned it. Before, I mean. When you were woozled and delirious.'

Jeeves gave Bertie a quick glance over his shoulder. 'Surely I made many nonsensical statements at that time, sir?'

'Yes, I suppose. But Jeeves, you sounded so dashed certain. Why would a man who has never done anything but bring sweetness and light into the lives of those around him say such a thing?'

Jeeves closed his eyes and sighed, dropping his chin to his chest. 'I cannot say, sir.'

Bertie chewed his lower lip and swiped at a Jeevesian forearm with his bathing implement. 'I'll never believe you won't find a home behind the pearly gates in the very, very distant future, of course. However, I'm finding as of late that perhaps I don't know my personal gentleman as I thought I did. It stings to think that I might have passed all this time with a stranger, is what I mean. If you have ever done something, Jeeves...something that you aren't proud of...'

'Sir, I really cannot say.'

'...I wouldn't care,' Bertie finished softly. 'Whatever it might be, I feel sure that all of your millions of other good deeds have erased it from your slate. You stand alone, Jeeves.'

'Yes, sir,' Jeeves returned just as quietly. 'As you say, sir.'

'If there is some... _thing_ that you would like to get off your otherwise unblemished chest, Jeeves, you could confess all to me.'

'Thank you, sir.' Jeeves was uncomplaining as Bertie washed aforementioned chest. 'If there were such a thing, I would feel very gratified to have your willing ear.'

Bertie nodded to himself in a self-satisfied way. 'Yes, I knew you hadn't done anything worthy of the fiery depths. Quite right.'

There was a small, tangible silence, during which Bertie snaked his arm round Jeeves to wash his stomach.

'It is not what I've done,' Jeeves finally said, very low, so that Bertie had to lean close to catch his words.

'Eh? What's that, Jeeves?'

'It is not what I've done,' Jeeves repeated, 'but what I am.' 

'What?' Bertie scrunched his nose, unable to follow the string of words. 'I don't understand. What are you, exactly, Jeeves?'

Jeeves shook his head in mute answer, his shoulders bowing forward, as if he were folding in on himself.

Bertie took a deep breath and pursed his lips. He ruminated for a long moment, weighing it all in his mind.

'No need to spell it out for me, old thing,' he said at last.

'No, sir?' Jeeves looked up at Bertie through the fringe of his mussed jet black hair.

'Not at all. I already know what you are.' Bertie set his sponge down in its dish and laid a damp hand on Jeeves' flinching shoulder. 'A paragon, a stalwart, a wonder, and a man I'm dashed proud to know in any capacity. Whatever else you think you are, well, it can't be anything compared to all those.' 

'Sir.' Jeeves cleared his throat, as if something had caught in it. 'Your kindness, your limitless kindness, will always serve as a reminder to me that,' his hand drifted to the wound at his side, 'there is more than darkness in the hearts of men. I cannot thank you enough.'

Bertie smiled slowly, forcing the muscles in his face to stretch into a wide grin. It felt rusty, but it eventually fell into place on his map. 'Your being here is plenty thanks for me, Jeeves.'

They may have stayed there all morning, Bertie's gentle hand on his valet's bare shoulder, Jeeves breathing deep and even, a strange tableau that neither wished to break. Until, of course, Mrs Fennaweave rapped loudly at the bedroom door, causing Bertie to jump a mile in the air.

'What are you getting up to in there? Are you quite finished yet, Mr Wooster?'

'Yes, one moment!' Bertie called back, dropping to his knees on the floor and giving Jeeves' legs and feet a hasty rub-down. 'I say, Jeeves,' he muttered to the other man, 'that nurse will be the death of me.'

A glimmer of a smile teased the corner of Jeeves' weary lips. 'Indeed, sir. You might find yourself hiring another lady to nurse you from this nurse, as it were.'

'Well, nothing to do but plod onwards, what?' And Bertie dropped the sponge back in the basin with a triumphant flourish.


	9. Chapter 9

Days passed, as they are wont to do. Jeeves healed, as people are sometimes able. Mrs Fennaweave still kept the man confined to bed for the most part, and when he did manage to negotiate with her for a turn round the bedroom, it was with the supporting arm of either his father or Bertie at his side. And nothing, but nothing, would convince Mrs Fennaweave that Jeeves could be allowed to perform even the lightest of chores, much to Jeeves' disappointment.

This presented a problem as Bertie, Mr Jeeves, and Mrs Fennaweave were not the most accomplished of chefs. Bertie had never cooked a meal in his life; Mr Jeeves had overseen a kitchen full of servants for years but had never been required to roll up his sleeves and pitch in with the roasting and boiling; and Mrs Fennaweave had volunteered to craft exactly one meal for the household on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.

It was agreed quite democratically afterward that Mrs Fennaweave should be excused from any further cooking duties. Not that they weren't incredibly thankful for the mushroom mousse that she had made, they were quick to point out, but there was no need to tax the dear woman unnecessarily, was there?

Every two or three days, Catherine would make the effort of taking the bus to Berkeley Square with a heavily laden serving dish wrapped in butcher paper. While her fare wasn't nearly as toothsome as her brother's cooking, they were simple and solid meals that could feed all four inhabitants nicely. Bertie never stopped thanking Catherine for those casseroles and cold meat pies which kept them nourished in those long days.

However, on one of the days that Catherine couldn't tear herself away from her husband and children, Bertie found himself asking Jeeves what the devil was to be done about breakfast.

'Jeeves,' he said. 'Breakfast. What the devil is to be done about it?'

'I would be content with a few slices of toast, sir,' Jeeves said with placid grace from his sickbed, where he was perusing a copy of Spinoza.

Bertie sighed and collapsed in the bedside armchair. He and Jeeves Senior had been taking shifts at Jeeves' side, Bertie all through the night and the elder man all through the day. However, this morning Bertie had watched the sun climb past the windowsill and didn't feel the need to shake the old butler awake. Jeeves, upon opening his eyes, had agreed. 'Let my father get a few minutes' more sleep,' he said. 'It would do him some measure of good, if you are not too tired, sir.'

'No, not tired at all, Jeeves,' Bertie had said. In truth, in the past few days Bertie hadn't slept more than twenty or thirty minutes at a time before being jolted awake by night terrors. He was loathe to go to bed at the moment or indeed any moment. He got up and paced a bit, a tactic he had developed to keep himself alert during the long evenings of watching Jeeves slumber peacefully. It was during this pacing when it occurred to him that something needed to be done about breakfast, and surely every other meal.

'We've eaten toast and jam for three straight days,' Bertie said with a frustrated frown. 'You'll turn into a crumb if I feed you any more of it.'

'Well, sir,' Jeeves licked his thumb and turned a tissue-paper page, 'if you would like, I can instruct you in the making of a rudimentary omelette. I'm sure, with the proper guidelines, you can turn something quite edible out of the pan.'

Bertie raised a doubtful eyebrow. 'Yes,' he said, 'if something edible were to jump into the bally pan before I reached it.' 

The bedroom door swung open and Jeeves' father stepped in, straightening his shirt cuffs. 'Good morning Reggie, Mr Wooster,' he said with a broad grin towards the former and a polite nod to the latter. 'Excuse my tardiness; I believe my usual alarm is no longer working.' He levelled an eye at Bertie in a half-fond, half-chastising fashion.

Bertie pointed to himself. 'Don't count on this Wooster as your alarm, Mr Jeeves. The time slips from me like thingummies in an hourglass.'

Jeeves gave a polite clearing of his throat. (His usual cough was still not back in full force due to the mending rib.) 'Mr Wooster has expressed a desire to concoct a meal, Father. Perhaps the two of you together could persevere in this task.'

'Two heads are better than one, you mean?' Mr Jeeves gave a gruff laugh. 'Well, I'm up for the challenge if Mr Wooster is. I'm getting rather tired of toast, you know.'

Jeeves made as if to rise from the bed, his hand still pressing instinctively to his injured flank, now covered with a modest pyjama shirt. 'If I would be allowed to sit in the kitchen and oversee your progress, then—'

'No, Jeeves!'

'No, Reg!'

Bertie and Jeeves Senior had shouted and started forward at the same moment, their hands outstretched. At their dual yells, the two looked at each other sheepishly and gave a nervous double-laugh. Jeeves merely looked heavenwards as if for divine guidance and relaxed against his pillows once more.

'I cannot be confined to bed forever,' he said, addressing them both. 'The pain is not at all bothersome today and I am beginning to feel restless. If Mrs Fennaweave does not object—'

'Mrs Fennaweave just left to go to the market,' Mr Jeeves broke in. 'We were, ah, running out of bread.' 

'I see.' Jeeves' eyes sparkled with some of his old spirit; Bertie could imagine that same look on the valet's face while listening to a tale of the young master taking a dunk in the soup. 'Then the good nurse will not know, will she?'

'Well, Jeeves,' Bertie said with a discreet fidget, 'there is the problem of you actually sitting in the kitchen. Nowhere to sit, I'm afraid.'

'But sir,' Jeeves furrowed his brow, 'what of the kitchen table and chairs?'

'Erm...' Bertie glanced at the Jeevesian pater for assistance in the delicate matter. He had told Mr Jeeves about disposing the soiled articles, after being asked why there was no table in the kitchen at which to work.

Mr Jeeves took the hint and forged ahead admirably. 'I had them taken away. The things were really very shabby, you know. Mr Wooster will purchase a new set.'

'Yes, quite,' Bertie concurred.

'I was in the habit, before my convalescence, of buffing out every scratch that came across the surface of that table. I do not recall either it or the chairs being in poor condition,' Jeeves said slowly.

'Well, they're gone at any rate,' Bertie said quickly. 'Here, why don't you just lie back, Jeeves, and...' he scurried over to his writing desk to retrieve a pencil and a page of blank paper, '...write down some step-by-steps for us, what?'

Someone uneducated in Jeeves-speak might have considered Jeeves' answering look a bland glance at his father and Bertie, but the trained eye of Bertram Wooster could detect the look of a long-suffering valet. Nevertheless, Jeeves wrote out his instructions in an elegant hand, taking care to verbally explain a tricky point or two.

'Take care to butter the entire pan so the egg does not stick,' he said more than once. Bertie kept nodding his head and repeating, 'Butter, yes, right.'

Somehow, the butter was forgotten in the first attempt. After Jeeves Senior turned the slightly charred specimen from the frying pan, both he and Bertie eyed the smoking foodstuffs with guilty frowns.

'That'll be mine,' they both said at the same moment, and then they shared a laugh at their own carelessness. Into the rubbish bin went the first omelette, and the two men tried again. It took some squeezing for them to work only on the cramped counter space, but they managed. Bertie cracked the eggs, as his nimble fingers seemed well-suited to it. Only a few bits of runaway eggshell needed to be fished from the egg bowl. Jeeves' father diced more smoked ham and shredded another measure of cheese, and the race was on once more. Stirring, beating, pouring, and actual cooking commenced in the now-buttered pan.

'By Jove, I think we've got it,' Bertie mumbled to himself, carefully sliding the fluffy, firm omelette from the pan to plate. 'Why, that looks nearly edible!'

'Good show, Mr Wooster,' Jeeves Senior said, giving him a paternal pat on the back.

'Well, I'd be making a terrible mess of things, I'm sure, if you weren't here to keep an eye on me, Mr Jeeves.'

'Please, Mr Wooster. It must be terribly confusing to be calling both my son and I by the same name. You can, if you prefer, call me Clarence.' The older man clapped Bertie's shoulder with his huge hand. 'You're practically family now, you know.'

'Oh!' Bertie flushed with a strange combination of embarrassment and absolute pleasure. To think a family as stalwart and true as the Jeeveses would welcome him into the fold, and to know how keenly he wished it to be real, made the colour rise in his thin cheeks. 'I—I don't think Jeeves, that is, Jeeves the Younger, would approve of me using your given name, Mr Jeeves. He's a stickler for the feudal spirit, and if I started bunging "Clarences" into the conversation, I would expect you to start using the matching "Berties." And I'm afraid that would be too much for Jeeves, the poor fellow.'

Mr Jeeves laughed, the first real one Bertie had heard from him. It was deep and hearty, exhibited with a great deal of head-thrown-backedness. 'I suppose you are correct, Mr Wooster,' he said when the roar of laughter had died down. 'We shall keep to the appellations for Reggie's sake. Now, I believe we have several more of these things to produce, hm?'

Two more omelettes were summarily flipped from the pan, and Mr Jeeves readied the breakfast tray to deliver the meal to his son. He arranged the smoothly polished cutlery with the grace of someone long accustomed to the task, and he folded the serviette, much like Jeeves did, in a regal triangle beside the plate. With the last few slices of toast to be had in the house and a steaming cup of tea, it looked almost like a real breakfast.

'What do you think?' Jeeves Senior asked, and Bertie tapped a thoughtful fingers to his lips, looking it over critically.

'It's missing something,' he said. 'It doesn't look quite like the trays Jeeves always brings me in the ack emma.'

It was the elder who snapped his fingers in swift realisation. 'Do you have a bud vase handy, Mr Wooster? We shall need a fresh flower to complete the picture, don't you think?'

'Ah, topping!' Bertie turned to the crystal cabinet and fetched the small vase that had accompanied all of his breakfasts in bed. But he slowed as he placed the empty vessel on the tray. 'Just need a specimen of the floral variety, I suppose...'

'Where does Reggie usually procure your buttonholes?' Mr Jeeves asked.

'There's a woman who sits on the pavement in the square until eleven every day; he always gets the daily sprig from her flowerbasket.'

'Oh good; you can pop downstairs and get one.'

Bertie stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking. He hadn't stepped outside the doorway since the morning Jeeves had been shot, and the idea of going out into the hallway filled him with dread, let alone down to the street! His aunts and friends had called and sent letters asking him where he had been; why he'd missed their appointed lunch; when they could stop by for cocktails; whether Bertie would like to take in a show. Those who hadn't heard the news of Jeeves' injury were told in brusque tones. Those who had and still insisted on Bertie's company were ignored. Leaving the apartment, in Bertie's mind, was quite out of the question.

'Perhaps you could...?' Bertie was unable to get the words out, his throat suddenly tight and closing in on itself.

'I've one more omelette to cook for Mrs Fennaweave's return.' Mr Jeeves had already turned his attention to the egg sizzling in the pan. 'I think I can handle it on my own; don't worry about me for an instant!' And he gave Bertie a slight wave of his hand to indicate he was free to leave.

Bertie considered telling the man all, confessing the fear that gripped him when he imagined stepping out of the house. But to do so would prove him unworthy of the Jeeveses and their trust. He was not a mouse; he was a Wooster, and he would march downstairs and get a bally flower from the flower-seller if it was the last thing he did.

He toddled into the sitting room on unsteady stilts and opened a drawer with all sorts of odds and ends. Between the spare pencil erasers and a half-dried bottle of ink, Bertie found a few shillings which he pocketed. Then he lifted his suit coat from where it had been folded over the edge of the chesterfield. (Jeeves would have never forgiven the wrinkles, but he did not have to see them.) He shrugged this on and popped on his hat, facing the front door with cold resolve.

'Right.' He straightened his tie. 'Stiff upper lip.'

Bertie unlocked the door's bolt and chain and turned the doorknob carefully. The thing swung open to reveal a large man dressed all in black. Bertie felt his heart nearly fail before he remembered it was just Officer Swanson, the daytime sentry.

'Hullo, Mr Wooster,' the young policeman said, turning and tipping his helmet politely. 'Stepping out, then?'

Bertie was still getting accustomed to Swanson and the nighttime fellow, Jenkins, standing outside the door. The inspector had sent them after Bertie's nervous telephone call about the matter, and the two guards were approved by whomever approved such things. They sentries had only knocked on the door a few times to report nothing of note and to ask leave to use the salle de bain. But Bertie was grateful for their protective presence.

'Yes.' Bertie licked at his dry lips. 'Very briefly. Just need to run downstairs, you know. I'll be back in the blink of an eye.'

'Ah.' The officer waited for a moment before adding, 'All right.'

Bertie nodded; so far this whole venture was going rather well, in his opinion.

The policeman coughed significantly. 'I suppose you're off, sir?'

'Yes! Yes, of course.' Bertie looked down at the threshold, weighing the thing in his mind. Not that a threshold weighs much, he reasoned; it was only an imaginary line between home and hall. 'Will you be needing a chair, Officer Swanson?' he asked suddenly, his eyes whipping back up.

'Not at the moment, sir, thank you.' 

'A glass of ice water, perhaps?'

'Maybe later in the day, but I'm fine at the moment. Thank you, sir.'

'Perhaps a hand or two of cards to pass the time?'

'I really couldn't, sir.'

'Right.'

Another deep breath, and Bertie stepped quickly into the hall. Deciding that speed was the better part of valour, he flew past the officer with a parting goodbye and rushed down the stairs at a breakneck pace. He barely had time to 'what-ho!' Jarvis before bounding out into the sunlit square.

After so many days cooped up indoors, it took Bertie's eyes a moment to adjust to the brightness. The sunlight surprised him; the few times he had bothered to look out the window recently had revealed a stormy sky. The weather this day was just as perfect as that fateful day when he'd last ventured outside.

Bertie steeled himself and made his way down the front steps of his building. The streets were busy, as they normally were on a fine day. Taxicabs and two-seaters rambled down the street; the milk-cart's horse clomped steadily onward; gentlemen and ladies bustled up and down the pavement, causing Bertie no small amount of concern. The feel of a stranger's arm brushing against him pulled his heart into his throat.

It was a blessedly short walk to the flower woman on the corner. Bertie tipped his hat to her and gave a brave upturn of his lips.

'Why, if it isn't the gentleman of my favourite customer!' the flower woman exclaimed. 'Is it true? The doorman told me Mr Jeeves had been hurt by a robber. I told my acquaintance at the Covent Garden market, and she says Mr Jeeves hadn't been by to see her either. And the shopkeeper out on Tottenham, he says Mr Jeeves hasn't been round at all. So is it true? I've been telling everyone who asks, and I just want to make sure I haven't gotten the story all wrong.'

'Erm, yes,' Bertie said. 'Getting well, of course, but there it is.' It seemed everyone in London knew Jeeves. That explained the profusion of well-wishing telegrams and hand-delivered notes that Jarvis was constantly bringing up to the flat. The number of gifts from those everyday acquaintances rivaled the number from family members, including Jeeves' eldest sister, his Uncle Charlie, and his cousin Egbert. Bertie's tailor had even sent a seedcake with a tear-stained card attached. Truly a kindred spirit of Jeeves' conservative and expensive tastes, Bertie imagined.

The flower-seller gave a loud sigh of relief. 'That is good to hear. I hope he's on his feet soon. Otherwise, who will I sell all these lovely buttonholes to?' She indicated her baskets of carnations and such with a wave.

'Well, I can take at least one off your hands,' Bertie said with a glimmer of his easy smile. He took the coins from his pocket and counted them out. 'Erm, what does Jeeves normally purchase? I confess I've never noticed what he places on the breakfast tray or attaches to my lapel. Something plant-like and spiffing is all I recall.'

The flower lady plucked a long stem from one of the baskets. 'Mr Jeeves never buys anything but red roses.' She smiled much too girlishly for her years. 'A true gentleman.'

'Ah, yes! Now I recognise the fellow.' Bertie took the flower she offered and handed over his coins. 'Is that sufficient? I don't know the going rate for roses, I'm afraid.'

'It's more than enough, sir!' She tried to return a few coins. But Bertie refused, saying he owed her for her recent loss of business. After a small good-natured squabble, the woman relented. 'Do tell Mr Jeeves I wish him a speedy recovery, sir.' The flower woman gave Bertie a grateful smile. 'Oh! And would you like me to trim that stem off for you? So you can wear it in your buttonhole?'

'It's not for me, thank you.' Bertie tipped his hat once more. 'Toodle-pip.'

It was but the work of a moment to race back upstairs to the flat, giving both the doorman and police officer cursory greetings once more. Within seconds, Bertie found himself placing the long-stemmed rose in the bud vase on the breakfast tray with a sigh. He had done it.

'That's lovely, Mr Wooster,' Mr Jeeves remarked as he flipped the final omelette from the pan and placed it in the oven to keep warm. 'Why don't you take it in to Reggie?'

'Do you think we could eat in the bedroom as well?' Bertie asked. 'If you don't mind balancing your plate on your knees, that is.'

'Plenty of space on my knees, sir,' the giant said, and they rolled out with the foodstuffs like small children eager to show a parent their hard-earned marks at the end of term. 

'Extremely satisfactory,' Jeeves declared upon tasting his first bite. 'Thank you very much, Father, Mr Wooster.' Bertie and Jeeves' father exchanged relieved glances.

Bertie was digging into his own fluffy and savoury omelette when he saw Jeeves fingering the red rosebud that stood cheerfully in its vase on his tray. A look of total wonder was gleaming in Jeeves' dark eyes, and he looked over to Bertie in awe.

'Did you purchase this from Mrs Montgomery, the woman on the corner?' he asked.

Bertie coloured slightly. 'Yes. Just biffed down to complete the morning repast ensemble. She wishes you well.' He fiddled with his fork. 'She distinctly said that you preferred the red roses. Did I make a blunder, Jeeves?'

'No, sir. It's only...' Jeeves traced an outer petal with his fingertip. He glanced over at his father, and Bertie followed his line of sight: the elder Jeeves was taking a deep drink of his coffee and not paying them much mind. 'You went out into the square, sir,' Jeeves said softly.

Bertie nodded. 'I did.'

Jeeves had never looked so proud. His eyes shone and every molecule of his being said as plainly as aloud, 'You have done well, Wooster.'

'Very good, sir,' he said significantly.

Bertie popped another bite of omelette into his mouth, grinning wider than he had in days.


	10. Chapter 10

'Stay still, dash it,' Bertie whispered, willing his hands to remain steady as a fine tremor threatened to throw him off. 'There we are.' He leaned closer and held his breath, drawing the blade carefully down the damask cheek. 'Really, Jeeves. You aren't going to be serving a house party anytime soon; why you must remain cleanshaven is beyond me.'

Jeeves waited for the straight razor to make its pass at the corner of his mouth before answering: 'I find any facial hair to be both physically irritating and uncouth in appearance, sir. Thank you for indulging me in this small comfort, though I would be more than happy to undertake the task myself.'

Bertie waggled the razor in a threatening manner, causing a bit of shaving cream to plop onto the protective toweling below. He had figured out very quickly that he needed to lay down several layers of towels in order to shave Jeeves while the man sat up in bed; Bertie was a passable barber but he was apt to make a mess with the foam and the warm water sloshing everywhere.

'You'll do no such thing,' he admonished. 'The doctor warned you not to jar your rib. Now do this.' Bertie stretched his jaw down and gestured to the skin underneath his own nose, which was stretched tight.

Jeeves aped his master's movements, and Bertie began the delicate work of scraping away the stubble on Jeeves' upper lip. Then Bertie wiped his razor blade on a clean towel and examined Jeeves' face for any patches he might have missed, turning Jeeves' head this way and that with a gentle grip on his chin. 'Final verdict, Jeeves?' Bertie held up a hand mirror for his manservant's own inspection.

Jeeves nodded, satisfied. 'Very thorough, sir.'

'Excellent.' Bertie poured some aftershave from a blue bottle into his hand and rubbed it between his palms before applying them to Jeeves' smooth cheeks. 'Would you like me to comb your hair back? It's in your eyes again.'

'That would be most welcome, sir.'

Bertie hopped from his perch on the edge of the mattress and began collecting his shaving tools. 'Just a moment, I think I left my brushes in the—'

The bedroom door opened and Jeeves' father stepped in. Bertie turned to give him a cheery morning yodel, but his face fell when he saw what Mr Jeeves was wearing: his travelling coat and hat.

'Oh,' Bertie said with a heroic attempt to keep his brow from furrowing. 'I didn't realise you were leaving so soon, Mr Jeeves.'

'It's been two weeks since my father first arrived, sir,' Jeeves pointed out. He turned back to his pater. 'Are you leaving on the 9.25 from Kings Cross?' 

'Yes, yes,' Jeeves Senior said gruffly. 'Wish I could stay until you're back on your feet completely, Reg.'

'It is enough that you've used your entire annual vacation to visit. And I am feeling stronger every day.' He held out his hand, and Mr Jeeves strode forward to shake it. 'Thank you, Father. It was good to have you here.'

'I'll call, shall I?' Mr Jeeves said, not letting go of his son's hand. 'I want to be sure you boys are getting on.'

'Absolutely,' Bertie piped up. 'You have the number, what?'

Mr Jeeves nodded tightly, his lips pressed together into a thin line of contained emotion. He looked down at his son, propped up on a mound of pillows, and he bent suddenly to clasp him in a careful embrace. 'You'll always be my darling boy, Reggie,' he said into Jeeves' ear.

Jeeves brought his arms round his father's broad back, his eyes meeting Bertie's over the giant's shoulder. Bertie was glad to see two spots of colour appear on Jeeves' cheeks, the badge of honour for embarrassed children everywhere. 

'I know, Father,' Jeeves murmured, averting his eyes from Bertie's laughing gaze.

'I'm just so thankful that you're going to be fine,' Mr Jeeves whispered. 'I love you so much.'

'I—' Jeeves looked up searchingly at Bertie, who gave a small, encouraging nod in his direction. 'I love you too, Father.'

Mr Jeeves levered himself upright with a steam-engine sigh, and he turned to Bertie. 'Mr Wooster, I must thank you for allowing me to stay with my son for these past weeks.'

'Oh, rather.' Bertie offered his hand, but Mr Jeeves batted it away in favour of catching him up in a bone-crushing bear hug. Bertie gave a shocked squeak and saw, where his eyes peeked over the pater's shoulder, Jeeves smirking at the turnabout. 

'You must send me word if you need anything, anything at all,' Mr Jeeves said. 'I owe you much, Mr Wooster.'

'Think nothing of it,' Bertie said. Or tried to say; muffled against the shoulder of the larger man, it actually sounded like _tink nuffin o' fit_.

With one last squeeze of the Wooster frame, Mr Jeeves stepped back and, with goodbyes flying all round, he left. Bertie closed the front door behind him. Suddenly, the flat seemed far less jolly.

'I suppose I don't have anyone to take over the daytime watch now, what?' Bertie said when he returned to Jeeves' bedside.

'Sir, you needn't continue the practise of sitting at my sickbed all day and night. Mrs Fennaweave has already said that the worst of the danger is past. Perhaps you will take this opportunity to rest yourself?'

Bertie bit his lip, not wishing to say how the small comforts of Jeeves' bed were now greatly diminished. The particular valet smell of the bed linens had dissipated with time and use; even the fresh sheets did not carry Jeeves' scent, what with all the washings Mrs Fennaweave had done to prevent the spread of germs. No, Bertie felt more easy within range of Jeeves, where he could smell and hear and feel that the man was alive and breathing.

It seemed ridiculous to need this affirmation; Jeeves was now able to sit up without help and even walk to the bathroom and the kitchen. His wound was very nearly healed and the doctor, pleased with his progress, had proposed to take the stitches out in a few days. The broken rib was also on the mend and the searing pain had, Jeeves assured him, become a dull throb at the very worst. By all accounts, Jeeves was healing fantastically and would be back to normal in no time at all.

But what would normal be, Bertie wondered. Surely he couldn't expect this man, whose wounds he'd cleaned and whose bandages he'd changed, to slide right back into the role of servant as if nothing had happened. And Bertie didn't think he could continue to give orders as he had only weeks ago and expect them to be carried out with all the magical efficiency that characterised Jeeves. It was this new fear, of not knowing what tomorrow would look like, that now had Bertie peering over his shoulder.

'Why don't I fix us some breakfast?' Bertie said instead, and bustled out of the room before Jeeves could protest.

The day passed by slowly: Mrs Fennaweave took the last of the bindings and bandages from Jeeves' torso, declaring him fit for continuing without. Bertie concocted several exemplary meals, and Jeeves noted his young master's increasing skill in the kitchen. The dinner, in particular, was a _coup_ as it featured fresh chicken (though slightly singed). In the evening, Bertie read the paper aloud to Jeeves, taking care to skip the more sensationalist stories of crime and violence. A family of kittens had been saved from a tree: that sort of thing.

Night fell and still Bertie lingered at Jeeves' bedside after Mrs Fennaweave had retired. 'Sir, I would be more comfortable if you spent the night in bed,' Jeeves said as he arranged his pillows in readiness for sleep. 'Unless I am mistaken, you have not had a moment's rest for over twenty-four hours.'

'Tosh,' Bertie said through a yawn. 'I'll be just fine. If need be, I can shut the peepers and snooze for a minute or so here.' He indicated the stuffed armchair where he sat stationed at Jeeves' bedside.

Jeeves looked hard into Bertie's face, and Bertie knew he was taking stock of every dark circle under the Wooster eyes, every wrinkle of hardship on his forehead, every cloud of tiredness on his visage. 'I really must disagree, sir,' he said.

Bertie shook his head and flicked off the bedside lamp. 'I will not be moved. Goodnight, Jeeves.'

'Goodnight, sir,' Jeeves said into the gloom.

As was usual, Bertie listened to the quiet sounds of Jeeves' breathing, his small shifts and adjustments under the sheets, until all was still and Jeeves was fast asleep. Bertie reached up and unknotted his tie and loosened a few buttons at his throat; he'd been wearing the same clothes for several days, and he resolved to change into something fresh the next morning before Jeeves could politely cough and suggest it himself.

His eyes slipped shut once, then twice. Bertie fought to keep them open, but he felt the bone-level tiredness in his limbs and the churning exhaustion in his mind and knew the battle wouldn't last long. He finally succumbed to sleep, curling his body into a tight ball in the armchair and resting his head against the velvety wing.

Bertie dreamt.

The alley again. It was long and dusty, mottled by puddles and pools of filth. It stretched out before Bertie for miles and miles. At the very end of the alley, framed in sunlight, a dark shadow of a man bowed and disappeared. On the ground in his wake: an unmoving shape.

'Jeeves,' Bertie whispered.

Bertie ran as fast as he could towards the end of the alley, but he could get no closer. A thin ribbon of blood flowed from the body past Bertie's quagmired feet, and this ribbon became a river, and this river became a flood, and this flood became a meadow.

Green grass waving waist-high. Buzzing insects in Bertie's ears. He panted, spinning round to get his bearings. 'Jeeves?' he called.

'The billfold,' the insects whispered. 'Give it here.'

Something gave a loud, equine snort behind Bertie, and he turned to see a bay mare, attired in saddle and bridle, striding riderless towards him. The horse passed Bertie with a shake of its monstrous head, and Bertie watched it plod slowly away. He looked down the path that the beast had made, parted oceans of grass leading beyond his vision.

He followed the hoofprints to their origin. 'Hello?' he shouted, but received no answer.

A glint of sunlight caught his eye and he looked down to find viscous red blood forming a horseshoe round the toe of his boot. His eyes tracked along the ground, and Bertie saw a shock of blonde hair peeking from the grass, the locks tangled in the flora. Bertie stood, staring, his heart in his throat.

There was a loud whooshing noise and Bertie clapped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. When the racket had passed, he found himself in his father's old study. Leatherbound volumes lined the walls, and over in the corner, amid the sweet scent of a discarded cigar, a man was bent over the baby grand. His fingers were drawing a beautiful song from the piano, something languid and full of grace.

The man turned, and Bertie stared at his own face, or very nearly his own. His father smiled.

'There you are, son of mine. Now, why so pale? You look like you've run across the county.'

Bertie stood gaping, his eyes widening in horror.

His father turned to look out the French doors. 'Where's your Mama? She should be back by now.'

'I'm sorry,' Bertie choked out, feelings hot tears run down his face. 'I'm sorry, Papa.'

Then, suddenly, Bertie was curled up in the dark, his knees hugged to his chest. He could hear footsteps above him; his old hiding place below the stairs. The murmur of the maids' voices reached his ears, the gaggle of women all speaking at once: 'He's gone mad, he has. His heart's been broke. Hasn't moved from his bed in days. Poor wretched soul.'

A heavier tread on the stair silenced them. Bertie peeked upwards through the cracks of the floorboards. The butler's voice, deep yet quiet, rolled through the wood: 'You will not accuse Mr Wooster of madness. If I hear another such statement, so help me—'

'Mr Wentworth, sir!' A page boy clattered up the stairs, panting hard. 'Come quick, sir! There's been an accident!'

'What sort of accident?' the butler asked, but Bertie knew.

He slipped from his hiding hole and ran to his father's bedroom. It was empty, the room where his father had lain in bed, unmoving, speaking only gibberish and, in his more lucid moments, baseless accusations. The bedclothes were in disarray. The gilt picture frames, which held the lithographs of Bertie, his sister, his mother, their family portraits, had all been smashed on the floor.

'This way!' he heard the page boy shout in the corridor. 'In the gun room.'

Bertie walked slowly, one foot in front of the other. The entire household was there. He watched the servants' mouths moving but heard no sound, no shouts of terror, no weeping of the maids and cooks. Just silence as he walked down the hall. Silence as he passed the butler, Wentworth, shaking in the corner. Silence as he pushed through the crowd of footmen in the doorway of the gun room. Silence as he saw his father on the carpet.

Silence.

The click of a gun. The muzzle against the back of his head.

'Have you got the time?' the gunman whispered in his ear. 

Bertie struck out blindly, kicking and beating his fists in the now-complete darkness. He screamed at the top of his lungs, angry shouts, pleas to spare his life, curses and unintelligible epitaphs.

'Stop! Stop it!' the gunman yelled in his face, his hot breath passing over Bertie in a wave.

'No, no, no!' Bertie struggled in an iron grip, thrashing wildly.

'Sir! Wake up!'

Bertie's eyes snapped open. He felt himself returning to the waking world as realisation dawned: it had been a dream, and now he was awake. He slumped against Jeeves bonelessly, inhaling his scent, burying his face in that paragon's shoulder, letting his tears soak into thin nightshirt cotton.

'Oh, God,' Bertie sobbed. 'Oh, God, Jeeves, oh, Lord.'

'It was only a nightmare, sir.' Jeeves allowed Bertie to cling, limpet-like, as he rubbed a soothing hand over Bertie's heaving back. 'Only a nightmare.'

Slowly, Bertie noticed that they were sitting on the floor in the corner of the bedroom, wedged between the wall and the dressing table. 'How did I get here?' he asked in a tight voice.

'You fell from your chair while in the throes of your dream, sir,' Jeeves said, not ceasing his rubbing. 'I heard the thump and awoke. I attempted to wake you, but—'

'Good God, man, what are you doing out of bed!?' Bertie pushed himself away from Jeeves' arms and dashed a hand across his tear-stained map. 'You could have been hurt, Jeeves, what with all my kicking and such! You shouldn't have put yourself in harm's way like that. What in the world were you thinking?'

Jeeves tucked his chin to his chest and gazed at the carpet. 'I admit my thoughts were not focused on my safety, sir, but your own. You sounded as if you were in great pain, sir.'

'Well, dreams can't hurt you, Jeeves, but a jab to your injured side will. You mustn't do anything so dashed foolish ever again.'

'Sir—'

'Now, let's get you back to bed.' Bertie attempted to rise, but Jeeves grabbed hold of his wrist and held him still.

'Sir, you called out for your father,' he said softly.

Bertie felt his lip quiver. He swallowed. 'Did I?' he said airily.

'You must tell me what plagues you,' Jeeves insisted. 'Please, sir.'

'Why?' Bertie sniffed defiantly. 'It's only a dream. You had one not too long ago, if you recall.'

'Yes, but yours are getting worse. You cannot even close your eyes, sir, without being dogged by some nightmare. Soon you will not be able to function, and I—'

'I can bloody well function!' Bertie roared. 'I've been taking care of this household all by myself, in case you've forgotten.'

Jeeves waited in silence for a moment, watching Bertie in the dark. 'Sir,' he said in gentle tones, 'over the course of this ordeal, we have seen each other at our worst, but also at our best. I did not hide from you, sir, when I was at my worst; will you not extend the same courtesy to me?'

Bertie trembled against the wall. 'I—I don't—'

'Please.' Jeeves arranged his legs so that they stretched out before him, his back to the wall beside Bertie, their shoulders brushing. 'Start at the beginning.'

Bertie swallowed, and his voice cracked on the syllables. 'She died.'

'Your mother?'

Bertie nodded. 'She loved horses, but Papa didn't. He liked music, singing, indoor things.'

'Was he as talented as you in that regard, sir?'

A muffled wail into Jeeves' shoulder. 'I can't do this, Jeeves. I can't—'

'My apologies, sir. I am truly...pray, continue.' Jeeves' arm snaked round Bertie and held him close. After a moment, Bertie located his voice again.

'I found her. It was an accident, and I found her. And when I told him, Papa was so livid. I'd never seen him angry before, and it was frightening, how he changed. Then it passed and he was empty of anger, empty of everything.'

Jeeves merely hummed in understanding.

'They say he went mad. But no one was supposed to talk about it. My sister and I would sit by his bed and he wouldn't even look at us. Like he was in a dream, always gazing off at nothing.' 

'Grief is often debilitating,' Jeeves murmured.

'They were going to take us away. My aunts, that is. They said it would be for just a bit. Until he got better.'

There was a pause. Jeeves prompted, 'And then, sir?'

'He had a whole collection of guns,' Bertie whispered. 'Family heirlooms. He'd hated hunting, but he kept them anyway. I was seven. My sister was almost ten. He—' Bertie sniffed against Jeeves' chest. 'He didn't leave a note. My aunts had it declared an accident because of that; said he'd been grief-stricken, confused, didn't know what he was doing.'

'Oh, sir...'

'I saw his eyes,' Bertie said with mounting bitterness. 'I saw him, stretched out on the carpet. He'd known exactly what he was doing.'

'Sir...'

'They watched me afterward, you know,' Bertie continued, 'in school, and even later at Oxford, for any signs, any clues. They'd whisper when they thought I couldn't hear: "Madness is in the blood." If I was too quiet, there would be a talk in the headmaster's room of the dangers of depression. So I...smiled. Even when I wanted to just cry and be done with it, I laughed and, and acted like an ass. I thought if I laughed enough, if I smiled enough, I would start to forget.' He sighed. 'I suppose it worked.' 

Jeeves bent his head towards Bertie's. 'Sir, I had thought my own hardships were unbearable, but I see now that is not the case. What you have lived through...is truly awful. How strong you must have been, and at such a young age.'

Bertie snorted. 'I don't feel very strong at the mo'. I feel rather like an overcooked noodle.'

'A good night's rest should remedy that, sir,' Jeeves said. 'I hope you'll be able to sleep peacefully, now that your troubles have been shared.'

'Yes.' Bertie felt the knot in his chest loosen somewhat. 'I think I should try to lie down and close my eyes for a bit. But Jeeves, I'd hate to leave you alone. What if you were to need something?'

'I could ring the bell, sir.'

'Yes, but what if you couldn't ring the bell for some reason? What if your arms went numb or you couldn't see straight or—?'

'Sir. I will be all right.' Jeeves stood and offered Bertie a hand in gaining his feet. 'Please, avail yourself of my quarters.'

Bertie swayed slightly on his feet, light-headed from the sudden change in altitude. 'Right. Well...' The attack of dizziness caused him to stumble against Jeeves, who caught him against his broad chest. 'Oh, Lord, sorry, old thing.'

Jeeves frowned; Bertie could _feel_ it, even in the dark. 'Perhaps you should rest here, sir. If you would take the bed...'

'But Jeeves, where would you sleep?' Bertie cried.

'I believe I still recall the way to my old room, sir. I shall sleep there.'

Bertie shook his head. 'As our American cousins say, nothing doing, Jeeves. Your mattress is as hard as a rock. I know this from experience. You should remain in my bed.'

'I must again protest, sir.'

'Well, we can't _both_ sleep...' Bertie trailed off and he turned to examine the spacious bed, '...here.' 

Jeeves met Bertie's eyes, glimmering with the question in the darkness. Jeeves seemed to mentally measure the mattress as well, and he coughed lightly into his fist. 'I believe, given the circumstances, the impropriety could be forgiven.'

Bertie felt a shiver go through his frame, and Jeeves held him more firmly by his upper arms. 'I suppose if you don't have any objections to it, then I'm on board.'

Jeeves gently guided Bertie to the mattress and pulled back the sheets for him. Bertie kicked off his shoes and climbed in. He wriggled over to the far right side, giving Jeeves plenty of space to slip in next to him. They lay there, side by side, staring up at the ceiling for a moment.

'Jeeves?' Bertie whispered.

'Yes, sir?'

Bertie paused, then said, 'You'll think I'm loony...'

'Not at all, sir. What is troubling you?'

'I worry,' Bertie gulped, 'that something might happen to you in the middle of the night if I fall asleep. If I can't see your chest rising and falling, I mean. What if I awoke and you were...?' He sighed. 'It's dashed silly, I know.'

Jeeves seemed to mull this over, because he suddenly said, 'If you would, sir, please exchange sides with me.'

'Eh? Right-ho.' Bertie climbed out of bed while Jeeves slid over, and then he walked round and re-entered on the left. 'What was that for, Jeeves?'

'Here, sir.' Jeeves reached his left arm out in welcome. 'Lay your ear over my heart. You'll be able to hear it satisfactorily, I think.' 

Bertie hesitated. 'That's your injured side, Jeeves. What if I were to kick and scream in the night? I might...hurt you.'

'I am confident you will not, sir.' Jeeves didn't wait for any more arguments; he clasped his hand to Bertie's far shoulder and guided him to rest his head against his chest. Bertie settled himself, feeling Jeeves' chin rest in his hair. Under his ear, as clear as day, Jeeves' heart beat loud and steady. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump...

Not wanting his hands to be trapped between their bodies, Bertie rested one palm on Jeeves' sternum. He curved his spine to conform to Jeeves' solid shape, his chilled feet brushing Jeeves' briefly.

'Sorry, Jeeves,' he murmured into Jeeves' pyjama shirt.

'It's all right, sir,' he soothed. Bertie heard the rumble of his voice deep in his chest. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump...

'Good night,' Bertie said softly before his eyes drifted shut. 'And thank you, Jeeves.'

'My pleasure, sir.' Tha-thump. Tha-thump...

Bertie slept and didn't dream of anything at all.


	11. Chapter 11

'Mphf,' Bertram W. Wooster said. It was a solid argument, he felt, with several pieces of evidence to uphold his thesis: waking was just Not On.

'Sir,' Jeeves' melodious voice whispered, 'it is seven-thirty.'

'Ngggh,' Bertie riposted.

'Indeed, sir. Most unfortunate, I agree.' Jeeves callously slid his arm out from under Bertie's neck, and Bertie's melon flopped to the mattress below. The young master let loose a low groan.

'Don't understand why I let you bully me into seven-thirty,' he mumbled as he rubbed the sleep-sands from his baby blues. 'Seven-thirty is an awful time to wake. Just bally awful.'

'If you recall, I had originally requested my customary waking hour of five o'clock.' Jeeves whipped his silk dressing gown round his pyjama'd frame like a conjurer. 'It was you, sir, who negotiated for the later time.'

'Yes, yes.' Bertie tunneled under a pillow and flapped his hand in the air. 'Go have your shower. I'll be up in a minute.'

'Very good, sir.' There was the vague sound of the door opening and closing as Jeeves oozed out on slippered feet.

It had been nearly two weeks since Bertie had first snugged down in the master bedroom with his manservant. Now the arrangement had become something of a permanent situation. It seemed that Bertie couldn't get a wink of sleep without the familiar heartbeat nearby; he'd tried and failed miserably.

It had happened that the day after said bedding-down, the doctor had stopped by, taken out Jeeves' stitches, and proclaimed him well enough to resume his duties, albeit in a careful and load-lightened manner. Mrs Fennaweave had packed her carpetbag with a firm nod and shook both men by the hand.

'I very rarely have the opportunity to see my patients recover, as most are too old and feeble. This was an unexpected pleasure,' she said with as much pleasantness as Bertie had ever heard from her. As he escorted the woman to the door to see her off and thank her for the thousandth time, she turned to him and, perceiving that Jeeves lagged behind, still buttoning his shirt perhaps, she whispered, 'You be careful, Mr Wooster.'

'What do you mean, Mrs Fennaweave?' he asked with a jovial air.

'I came in this morning to check on the patient one last time.' The nurse paused for a moment. 'Very early this morning.'

Bertie gave a start of realisation and stuck his hands in his slept-in trouser's pockets. 'Yes, yes, I suppose we made quite a picture, what? But I assure you, I didn't kick one whit in my sleep. Jeeves was perfectly safe.'

'I am not referring to his--' Mrs Fennaweave stopped and her jaw tightened. Bertie gazed at her in growing confusion, shaking his head slightly to show he wasn't following. 'I suppose it isn't any of my business. I was paid to do a job and I've done it. I'll just say goodbye, Mr Wooster.'

And she vanished, leaving behind the scent of iodine.

Bertie had watched Jeeves return to his quarters that first night with trepidation, but kept the stiff u.l. After all, Jeeves was a grown man, perfectly capable of sleeping alone in his room; he'd been doing so for years without incident. No need to kick up a fuss.

Except Bertie found that it was the young master who needed tending to. His first night alone in his bedroom, surrounded by fresh, clean sheets and no discernible trace of Jeeves, filled him with absolute horror. And when he closed his eyes and willed himself to unconsciousness, he was plagued by the most ghastly nightmares that had heretofore surfaced in the Wooster brain.

Upon waking, Bertie crept out into the hall and stopped in front of Jeeves' bedroom door. He considered knocking (just seeing Jeeves' face would be a help to his shattered nerves, he thought) but in the end, he couldn't bring himself to do such a disgraceful thing. He curled up on the carpet in front of the door and stayed there throughout the night, nodding off one moment and then sitting bolt upright the next.

When Jeeves found him in the early morning hours, slumped against the door-jamb, he didn't say a word. He merely looked down at Bertie, as expressionless as a plate-glass window, if plate-glass windows ever wore pyjamas and dressing gowns.

'Sorry,' Bertie had croaked. 'I couldn't...'

Jeeves offered his hand and helped Bertie to his feet. 'Come with me, sir,' he murmured with all the politeness of a valet leading his master to the proper hotel room. He took Bertie back to bed and resumed their position from the previous night: Bertie's head resting on Jeeves' chest, Jeeves' arm round Bertie's shoulder. Bertie was asleep in moments.

It was later agreed that the two couldn't sleep until noon every day; Jeeves had chores to do after all. And the moment he left the bed, Bertie would be wide awake, unable to continue sleeping in. So after a bit of discussion and debate, 7:30 in the ack emma became the appointed time for their joint rising.

But Bertie didn't have to _like_ it.

With one last grunt, Bertie rolled out of the bed and padded off to run his own bath. At first it had grated on Jeeves' nerves that Bertie was running baths and toasting bread and attempting to dust shelves. That last one in particular had resulted in a bit of a spat:

'Sir, I cannot advise you to continue in this vein,' Jeeves had said with a certain coldness.

Bertie merely glanced at the vase that lay broken on the floor. 'I didn't like the blasted thing anyway. And now there's one less thing to dust, what?' He held his stolen feather-duster aloft.

'I am referring, sir, to the fact that your energies in the domestic realm are no longer a necessity.' Jeeves swept the china shards into a dustpan with two flicks of his wrist. 'It is my duty to cook and clean and see to your comforts, not vice versa.'

'But the doctor said—'

'The doctor said I am healed enough to return to work.' Jeeves took the feather-duster from Bertie's hand with a gentle touch to his wrist, forcing his grip to relax. 'It brings me great pleasure to carry out what duties I can; I ask that you allow me that small thing, sir.'

'All right,' Bertie mumbled. Then, perking up: 'But my egg skills are getting to be quite topping, Jeeves. Surely you wouldn't mind if I sling breakfast together once in awhile?'

The corner of Jeeves' mouth quivered, signalling his version of a smile. 'No, sir, I would not mind.'

'And if we're rising at the same time, I suppose I could allow you to toddle off to perform your ablutions instead of tending to me during mine?'

'Well, sir—'

'That settles that, then,' Bertie said, clapping his hands together. The second compromise of the Wooster household had been reached.

On this particular morning, Bertie rose from his hasty bath and threw on his dressing gown before rushing to the kitchen, but he was disappointed to find Jeeves there ahead of him, already dressed in his pinstriped trousers and other assorted valeting togs. He was laying strips on bacon in the frying pan on the stove; Bertie heard the faint sizzle and smelled the thick aroma.

'Oh, Jeeves,' he sighed, 'I wanted to cook the breakfast today.'

'Yesterday was your allotted day for the task, sir,' Jeeves reminded him, alluding the yet another compromise they'd reached, in addition to the new change of eating the morning repast together at the freshly delivered kitchen table.

'Well, at least let me lend a hand.' Bertie dove into the pantry and shuffled round for a jar of something to put on the toast. He found one unopened but decidedly foreign-looking. 'Jeeves, have you ever had grapefruit-guava jam?' he called over his shoulder.

'No, sir, I don't believe I've never had the opportunity to taste those two tropical fruits together. I recall that particular jar finding its way into the pantry as part of a large gift basket of edibles that your aunt sent for your last birthday.' The bacon hissed as Jeeves flipped it. In another pan, the eggs were well on their way to poached. Bertie sidled up to the stove to have a look; he still hadn't mastered poached eggs and he was keen to see them in action.

He unscrewed the g.-g. jam lid absent-mindedly. 'What sort of day do you suppose it is, Jeeves?' he asked.

'Hm, a day that requires a trip to the market, surely, sir. We also might find the time to drop in at the tailor's, as his telegrams inquiring after my health have become nearly frantic in their tone. Besides putting his mind at ease, we may order several summer-weight fabrics for the season, sir.' One egg was gently lifted from the boiling water with a slotted spoon.

Bertie found a butter knife in the drawer after a moment of fishing.

'Sounds easy enough. To the market and tailor's it is, then,' Bertie agreed. He had, in the past few days, been an accomplice on Jeeves' small trips round town during the day. The valet had requested his assistance in carrying heavy parcels and the like, as the doctor had recommended. Of course, Jeeves could have hired a delivery boy to slog about with the parcels, but this was a dashed good chance for Bertie to venture forth from the flat, and he took it. After all, he rather didn't like the notion of being alone in the homestead; after weeks with nothing unusual to report, the policemen had ceased to guard the front door.

Bertie took a slice of toast from a stack of its cooling brethren and jammed it thoroughly. He held the morsel before Jeeves' face, reaching his arm round the man's shoulder as he stood at the stove. 'Here, try a bit, would you?'

Jeeves dutifully took a small bite from the toast and chewed thoughtfully. 'A strange combination, sir, but refreshing in its own fashion,' he proclaimed after swallowing.

'Really?' Bertie took his own sample from the bitten toast. 'Golly, that isn't bad at all. Shall I—'

The peal of the telephone interrupted him, and Bertie padded off towards the noise. 'I've got it, Jeeves,' he assured when the valet moved to answer the ringing as well. 'You just keep an eye on the foodstuffs.'

Bertie shoved the rest of the toast in his hungry mouth and chewed quickly as he picked up the receiver. 'Bertie Wooster here,' he said in a slightly muffled toast-filled way.

'Mr Wooster, this is Inspector Evans.'

Bertie froze. He listened to the words that the inspector spoke over the telephone line, and he made only the requisite 'yeses' and 'I sees' in response. Then he placed the heavy receiver back in its cradle and stood, trembling, by the telephone table. He didn't move until Jeeves floated through the kitchen door.

'Breakfast is—' He stopped short upon seeing the young master so distraught. 'Sir, may I ask who was calling?'

'It was the police,' Bertie said. 'They want me to come down to the station.' He looked up at Jeeves. 'They've got him.'

Jeeves said nothing, merely took another step forward, gesturing with his eyes alone that Bertie should continue.

'At least, they think they've got him. Need me to drop in and point the finger. It makes a chap jolly well filled with butterflies, Jeeves.' Bertie passed a shaking hand over his brow. 'Suppose I can't pick out his face? What if it's not the correct man at all? What if—?'

'Sir.' Jeeves coughed lightly into his fist. 'You can only make your honest judgment and trust that the police will have done their work to the best possible degree. However, if the prospect of confronting this attacker disturbs you, then you are not obligated to go. We might stay in today; the weather looks bleak, after all,' he said, though Bertie could only detect one or two clouds outside the sitting room window.

Bertie shook his coco-nut with a frown. 'But, Jeeves, don't you want to see this bounder brought to justice?'

'I am more concerned with your peace of mind, sir.'

For a moment, Bertie considered it: holing up indoors and pretending not to have received the call from the inspector. To just go on as if nothing had happened, and spend the day reading snippets of the newspaper aloud to Jeeves as he darned a sock or something. But no. That cosy life was a dream, made impossible by the thought that somewhere in the city lurked a man who could bring Jeeves great harm.

'I have to go,' Bertie said.

'Then I will accompany you, sir,' Jeeves answered.

Bertie dressed slowly and carefully, making certain each button was in place and each fastener was done. He didn't know why, but he wanted to present a collected exterior to whomever he might meet in the police station. Jeeves shimmered out for a moment and returned with a rose for his buttonhole. He then took his hat and walking stick from Jeeves, eschewing the breakfast that the man had prepared.

'Nothing against your toothsome fare,' he apologised, 'but I don't think I could stomach anything at the moment.'

'Of course, sir,' Jeeves said, placing his own bowler hat on his head.

They procured a taxicab on the corner and made good time, arriving at the district police station in minutes. Bertie strode up the stone steps and through the heavy door with all the poise he could muster, but he faltered once he was inside the station proper. The place was chaos incarnate. The halls and sitting room bustled with uniformed men, cuffed convicts, urchins and working men from all walks of life, gentlemen demanding to see the chief of police, everyone shouting that they had the wrong man, that they were going to sock someone in the mouth if they didn't quiet down, that they were still waiting, damn it all to hell!

Bertie stood close to the doorway, marvelling at the writhing masses of humanity in that building. Somewhere behind him, Jeeves cleared his throat.  
'Shall I ask for Inspector Evans, sir?'

Bertie scanned the teeming crowd. 'No need, old thing. That's the man there.' He pointed to the sandy-haired inspector, walking calmly through the madness towards them, studying some papers in his hands as if there wasn't a war going on round him. Bertie called out to him over the din, and he looked up.

'Ah, Mr Wooster.' He stepped forward to shake hands with them both. 'Mr Jeeves. Nice to meet you after only speaking to you over the telephone. But you needn't have come; only Mr Wooster can act as an eye-witness, as you have stated that you have no recollection of the gunman's face.'

'I am here nonetheless,' Jeeves said. 'Perhaps I will recognise the man after all. The memory can sometimes be made clear in this manner, can it not?'

'Yes, quite right. Well, if you would come this way.' The inspector led them through the rough crowd and down a corridor. The longer they walked, the quieter it became until only their footfalls echoed off the stonework. 'We'll walk you through the holding area, Mr Wooster. Now, lots of chaps will be there, but there's nothing to worry about; they're all locked up in cells. If you see a familiar face, just give a shout and then we'll know we have the right man.'

'He'll be able to see me?' Bertie asked.

'Yes, but he'll be behind sturdy iron bars. Won't be able to do a thing to you, on my honour,' Inspector Evans said.

They came at last to a door guarded by two beefy specimens of London's finest. After unlocking the door, the inspector led Bertie into the long hall, lined on either side with cage after cage. Inside many of these cells were men, some asleep and slurring in their drunken dreams on plank cots, some pacing the floor of their small space with muttered curses, some curled into tight balls in corners.

Bertie walked slowly down the line, looking carefully at each man.

'Take your time, sir,' the inspector said.

Bertie did so. One of the pacers snapped at him, 'What are you looking at?' Bertie merely tipped his hat and continued on briskly.

His eyes fell on an inmate who was not sleeping, pacing, or despairing. The man lounged on his plank bed, looking quite comfortable and at home. He wasn't watching Bertie, but staring up at the ceiling and whistling to himself. His coat was a threadbare dust colour, and his dark boots tapped in time to his song.

'Can you have him say something?' Bertie whispered to Inspector Evans, still staring at the man.

Evans called out, 'Skinner!'

The man Skinner looked over and said, 'Good day, inspector.' His voice was low, his tone pleasant, miles away from its original intent, but Bertie would know that sound anywhere.

'That's the man,' he said quietly. 'That's him.'

Skinner seemed to finally notice Bertie, and his watery grey eyes alighted on him, looking him up and down, from polished shoes to collar to walking stick. 'What's this, then?' he asked gruffly.

'You're finally going to court,' Evans told him. 'You've been identified.'

'Oh.' Skinner mused over Bertie again. 'Did I rob you, too?' His eyes, unfocused and bleary, seemed to hold no real recognition. It seemed entirely lop-sided to Bertie, who had feared this man and gave so much thought to what his future plans would be. Their brief encounter had changed Bertie's life forever. For this Skinner cove, though, it had been a day of no importance.

Bertie stepped closer to the bars. 'You don't remember me?'

Skinner sat up and shrugged. 'I've robbed lots of people.'

Without taking his eyes off the inmate, Bertie gestured behind himself, to where he could sense Jeeves still standing. 'You shot my valet in the process. Do you not recall that?'

Skinner scratched at his stubbled cheek and stood with languid calm. 'Can't say I do.'

'Steady on,' Evans said slowly, though whether to Bertie or Skinner, it wasn't clear.

Bertie shook his head, his eyes growing hard with ice. 'How can you ask a judge to be lenient with you when you don't even remember your crimes? How can you feel remorse for something you don't care to recall?'

'Simple, that.' Skinner leaned closer to the bars, his stale stench washing over Bertie. 'I don't feel no remorse, and anyone who thinks I should can—'

But the man was not allowed to finish his statement. Bertie lifted his walking stick and, with the speed of a viper, brought it through the iron bars and hooked it round Skinner's shoulders. His other hand darted through the bars on the man's other side and, grabbing both ends of the stick, pulled Skinner viciously against the wall of the cell. Skinner's forehead clanged against the metal and he gave a shout of pain and surprise.

This all had happened in the blink of an eye, leaving no one else any time to react. Skinner cried to be unhanded, and Bertie growled incoherently in response, keeping him pinned with all his wiry strength. Soon, though, everyone snapped into action: Bertie felt Evans and Jeeves put their hands on him to try and pull him away from the bars, but he would not let go. Blood was now running freely from the inmate's forehead, but Bertie adjusted his grip on the walking stick and smashed it against the back of Skinner's neck, hemming him in once more. Evans shouted for the guards, and more feet came running.

'For God's sake, Wooster, let him go!' Evans shouted.

'No,' Bertie snarled.

'Sir, please,' Jeeves said.

'No!'

Finally, the power of four men overcame Bertie and he was torn away. The whangee clattered to the floor and Skinner, gasping for the breath that had been choked from him, stumbled to the ground.

Still, Bertie fought his captors, lunging for the man, screaming threats and epitaphs and pure fury. The other inmates joined in the shouting, and soon the entire holding area was in an uproar.

'Take him out of here!' Evans ordered.

Jeeves' unruffled voice cut through some of the chaos. 'Is there a quiet room where I might—?'

'Yes, yes, through there!' someone directed, and before he knew what was happening, Bertie found himself shut in an empty private office with Jeeves' hands clamped on his arms to keep him from struggling.

'Let me go!' Bertie thrashed some more, but Jeeves stood firmly between Bertie and the door. On the other side, Bertie heard the guards ordering the inmates to be silent and the sounds of a racket slowly being controlled. But the fire in Bertie's heart would not die out in kind. He tried to free himself from the iron grip of his valet once more.

'Sir, please calm yourself.'

'I'll kill him!' Bertie screamed, nostrils flaring. 'I'll wipe that grin off his map, I swear!'

Jeeves shook him by the shoulders. 'Sir, stop it this instant!' This was roared with all the authority of a drill sergeant, and Bertie at last stopped struggling.

He went still, the colour draining from his face as his eyes focused on the man before him. His breathing came in pants and gasps, and his hands shook with the after-effects of adrenaline coursing through his blood. Bertie felt tears in his eyes.

'Oh, god,' he whispered. 'What am I doing?'

'Sir—'

'I'm going mad, aren't I?' Bertie's eyes darted along the stone floor as if looking for the reason that had deserted him. 'I'm going completely mad.'

'No, sir, you're—'

'I wanted to murder him. I still do. Oh, Christ in Heaven, Jeeves, I'm losing my mind.' He swayed on his feet, his gasps for air becoming tinged with tears that ran hotly down his face and down his throat. Still Jeeves held him close.

'Sir, please—'

'What's happening to me?' Bertie was weeping openly now. 'What sort of man am I turning into, Jeeves? I—'

Jeeves bent his head and placed his mouth over Bertie's, swallowing the sobbing questions, the heart-racing panic. His lips were firm and unhesitating, but soon they gentled and rested there softly, unpretending. Bertie's eyes widened, then slid shut, and more tears leaked from beneath his eyelids.

Jeeves broke the kiss and looked directly into Bertie's eyes, which drifted open under the scrutiny. 'You are still Bertram Wilberforce Wooster,' Jeeves said, 'and I am still at your side.'

Bertie stood there awestruck, clinging to Jeeves for support, knowing only that he couldn't stand alone.

Jeeves looked much the same, his eyes wide and disbelieving, as if he didn't quite trust the reality of what he had just done. He looked down into Bertie's face, and Bertie saw real fear bloom there, much like the morning he'd woken Jeeves from his nightmare.

'Jeeves, what...?'

Jeeves wrapped his arms round Bertie's slim shoulders and nestled Bertie's head under his chin, so that they couldn't see each other's faces. 'Let's return home, sir. I do not believe a police station is the most sensible setting for the conversation which I imagine we should now be having.'

'Yes,' Bertie nodded, staring blankly at the way his pale hand rested on Jeeves' black sleeve. 'Let's go home.'


	12. Chapter 12

Bertie walked towards the exit door of the police station in a daze. He felt Jeeves two paces behind him, keeping the proper valet-ish distance, but the man may as well have been standing right there next to him, so real did the lingering touch on Bertie's arm feel, so warm the skin of Bertie's lips remained.

He glanced over his shoulder at Jeeves, his dark shadow. At the moment, Jeeves was looking off to the side, perhaps gauging the distance between the young master and a rather rowdy man in custody, perhaps just lost in thought, a fine figure cut in sharp black lines and crisp white collar. Bertie knew what it was to feel attraction, even for another man. And if ever there were a cove that deserved to have that sort of attention heaped upon him, it was Jeeves. It wasn't the cove-ness of the thing that rattled Bertie's already rattled nerves, although that certainly wasn't helping matters; rather, it was that nameless, cloying fear that had been gnawing away at the edge of the Wooster mind ever since the whole business in the alley. And the police station was definitely not the right place to deal with those demons. Yes, Bertie thought, this was something to be discussed in the home, not in the public eye.

But before Bertie could reach the massive door, Inspector Evans stepped in front of him. Bertie gave a startled jump; did he know? Had there been a glass panel in that office door? He couldn't recall. Suddenly, the cove variable took on some increasing importance.

Evans, however, only said, 'Feeling calmer, Mr Wooster? You gave Skinner quite a gash. A nice shiner, too.' He handed over the abandoned walking stick with a raised eyebrow.

Bertie gave a small sigh of relief. Then he wondered how awful it was when the least of his problems was an aggravated assault charge. 'Yes, I'm terribly sorry about that.' He took the whangee while staring at the tips of his shoes. 'I really can't imagine what came over me, Inspector. I've never so much as smacked a ruler on someone's knuckles in my life. If I must be given a summons or whatnot—' 

'No, Mr Wooster. Though we usually look down on witnesses pummelling suspects, I think I can make an exception in your case. Skinner's crimes have been some of the most notorious and senseless I've seen.' Evans stroked his neat moustache with thumb and ring-finger. 'He robbed an old woman just last week. Even took her cane, he did.'

'Oh, surely not?'

'I'm afraid so. And we've only just now caught him thanks to your watches.' Evans produced two gold pocket watches from his uniform jacket: one modest but well-shined one, and one with a wedding date engraved on the back. 'Found them in a broker's shop, just as I expected. Tracked him down from there.'

'Golly.' Bertie reached out to touch his father's old watch. 'May I—?'

'No, I'm sorry; they'll be needed as evidence. I will be sure to send them on to you after the trial is over,' Evans said, pocketing the trinkets once more. 'If you're needed to testify, I shall notify you via telegram, of course.'

'Of course,' Bertie echoed.

'Well, good day, Mr Wooster, Mr Jeeves.'

Bertie didn't remember much of the ride home. He supposed Jeeves had hailed a taxicab and they'd gotten into it, and he supposed he somehow climbed the stairs to the flat, and he supposed Jeeves took his hat at the door as usual, but it was all just a blur to Bertie.

'Sir?' Jeeves was at his side suddenly, and Bertie nearly jumped out of his skin.

'I—I think I need a lie-down,' Bertie mumbled, averting his eyes from Jeeves'. 'Just a few minutes. The whole escapade has, well, drained me, you know.'

'Perhaps a brandy, sir, would—'

'No, thank you, Jeeves. I just need to...' Bertie took two steps toward the master bedroom and then stopped. He thought of how the sheets would smell, that scent of his cologne mingled with Jeeves' hair cream. 'Jeeves,' he said, turning round to the man again, 'would you mind awfully if I used your room? That is...your old room, your, your quarters? I—' He ducked his head and strode in the opposite direction to the valet's lair. 'It's closer, is all.'

Bertie didn't look over his shoulder, but he heard Jeeves' faint, 'Certainly, sir.' Quiet and as devoid of emotion as a candlestick.

Bertie shut the door behind himself with a little more force than necessary and slumped back against the solid wood. He hated leaving Jeeves alone like that in the sitting room when the man so obviously wanted to pursue that promised conversation, but Bertie was at his wit's end, and he needed to gather more wits if he wanted to speak to Jeeves about whatever it was that had happened at the police station.

The fingertips of Bertie's right hand rose to brush against his mouth. Surely when a man gets hysterical, someone is supposed to slap him across the face, not plant one on his lips! Bertie's knees shook at the memory; he really did need to lie down.

He took a step toward the small, thin bed, but his legs buckled at just the wrong moment. Bertie stuck a hand out blindly to regain his balance, and he knocked one of the gilt picture frames from Jeeves' dressing table. It fell to the floor with a loud CRACK of glass.

'Oh, hell,' Bertie whispered under his breath. He bent to examine the poor thing. If he had ruined the photograph of Jeeves' parents...

He carefully grasped the frame, mindful of the tinkling shards of glass, and turned it over. A sigh of relief whooshed from his lips: it was only the old picture card of the Empire State Building. Bertie knelt on the floor and extracted the slip of cardstock from the ruined frame; he would have to buy a new holder for the thing.

As one usually does when handling a postcard, Bertie flipped it over to see what might be written on the back. Perhaps some old American acquaintance had sent the card to Jeeves; Bertie imagined he'd find a short, sunny message from a friend or relative. But no. Bertie only found his own loopy handwriting.

 _Jeeves,_ (it said)

_Can't find the bally telephone pad for the life of me. Going to the Pumpkin Club for lunch—will dine at home for dinner. There's a topping new show at the Lyceum. I've procured two tickets, but Corky's got the flu. Have you made any plans for this evening?_

_B_ (there being very little room left to write at the bottom of the picture card)

Bertie didn't recall writing the note, but he remembered that night in New York well. The Lyceum had been packed to the gills, as the new musical show was supposed to be the best of the season. Bertie had been so excited to see it, and so disappointed that Corky couldn't come with him. Jeeves had filled the vacant seat admirably, though Bertie knew that the man's tastes in theatre were as conservative as his taste in ties.

During the interval, when the lights slowly dawned on and the New York socialites began jostling down to the lobby to be seen and heard, Bertie turned to Jeeves and asked how he was liking the thing.

'Very amusing, sir,' Jeeves had said while staring straight ahead.

Bertie had frowned at his stuffed-frog routine. 'Really, Jeeves?'

'Oh, yes, sir.' Not entirely convincing.

Bertie had thought it an enjoyable little series of numbers, but he could see Jeeves didn't feel the same. 'Well, I think it's a sorry excuse for a play. There haven't even been any chorus lines.' Bertie had stood with an airy wave of his hand. 'Very poor performance. I don't need to see the rest, I think. Shall we take a stroll down Broadway? I hear tell of the most tasty morsels sold from the late-night food carts.'

And so they left the theatre in glittering, filthy Times Square and walked until they found a man selling warm pretzels on the pavement. Bertie purchased one and ate it as they went, tearing off small bits with his gloved hands and popping them into his mouth. Jeeves had talked of American politics, a subject that was murky as dishwater to Bertie. Bertie had offered him a taste of his pretzel. Jeeves politely declined, but Bertie forced him to try just one bite. The smell of the late-night diners, the blasts of far-away car horns, the glow of the neon lights, the vibration of the subways rumbling underfoot—yes, Bertie remembered that night well.

'Sir?'

Bertie looked up to find Jeeves standing in the doorway, looming over him. The man had obviously come to ascertain what the sound of breaking glass had been about. Bertie flushed guiltily and motioned to the broken picture frame and the note in his hands.

'I'm terribly sorry, Jeeves; it was an accident.'

Jeeves knelt as well and took the picture card from Bertie's hands as if it were a delicate votive offering. 'Leave the mess, sir. I will clear it.'

Bertie fidgeted with his now-empty fingers. Jeeves appeared to be examining the grand lines of the Empire State Building on the face of the postcard, his eyes filled with memories, and Bertie knew he was recalling that evening too.

'New York was wonderful, wasn't it, Jeeves?' he said for want of a better opening gambit.

Jeeves nodded, his gaze still riveted to the picture. 'Indeed, sir.'

'Of course, I didn't know you all that well then. You'd only been with me for, what was it, about one year?'

'Thirteen months, sir.'

'Yes. I remember wondering if you'd be agreeable to abandoning the home country for any length of time.'

'On the contrary, sir, I was eager to see America. It was an opportunity to fulfil a boyhood dream of mine.' Jeeves traced a fingertip down the sharp line of the nighttime skyscraper, lit up in all its finery. 'The time we spent in New York remains in my fondest memories, sir.'

'Well, except for that show I dragged you to,' Bertie said with a thin laugh.

Jeeves looked up suddenly. 'Oh, no, sir. I cherish that evening most of all.'

Bertie scrunched his face in disbelief. 'Jeeves, one can sense when one's valet isn't enjoying a musical performance, and I believe it was about the time of the second act, when the leading lady attempted to hit a high C, that I felt you positively cringe beside me.'

With a quirk of his lips, Jeeves said, 'I admit the theatrical production left something to be desired, sir. However, it was your kindness in allowing me to attend the performance with you that has impressed itself upon my memory. Almost as if, sir, you considered me a friend.'

'I did,' Bertie said. 'Dash it, that is, I do. Or, at least—' He sighed. 'I don't know what to consider you, after what's happened. Why did you do it, Jeeves?'

The man carefully stowed the picture card in his suit coat's hidden inner pocket before answering, his eyes trained on the floor. 'I found I could not stop myself from kissing you, sir. You were delirious with sorrow and I only wanted to end it for you, to comfort you in some small way.' Jeeves met Bertie's eyes steadily. 'I apologise for acting on this impulse at such an emotionally volatile moment. But I cannot say I regret it.'

Bertie noticed how close they were to each other, seated on the hard floor with nothing but shards of sparkling glass between them. With a small shift in the opposite direction, Bertie asked, 'Jeeves, what in the world am I supposed to say to that?'

'You needn't give me any sign of affection in return.' Jeeves held his gaze in a masterful fashion. 'I know in my heart how you regard me, sir.'

Bertie shot to his feet and, with a mumbled excuse, fled to the corridor. The world was going all blurry round him again, but he thought if he could just make it to the master bedroom, he could perhaps run a hot bath and sink down into it and then forget all the insanity sprouting up in his life. Two steps further, and he would have made it, but the steel grip of his valet caught him by the elbow.

'Sir! Please—'

'How do you envision this ending, Jeeves?' Bertie whirled on him, finally exploding in a passion, his face scarlet. 'There can be no fish slice and sponge-bag trousers in this scenario! What will happen, what _can_ happen, if I put my hand in yours and agree to traipse down that long road into the sunset?'

Jeeves' grip on Bertie's arm lost some of its power, and if Bertie didn't know better, he would say the man shrank back from the venomous tirade. 'I'm sure I don't know, sir, having never tried,' he said quietly.

'Well, allow me to enlighten you!' Bertie snapped. 'You'll get tired very quickly of shoring up poor fatheaded Bertram, that's what. Or I'll get the pip about some discarded waistcoat and we'll quarrel. Or you'll take offence to the way I flip the eggs, and I'll grow weary of the noises you make in your sleep. Or worse, someone will discover our misdeeds and wrench us asunder before we can do it ourselves.' His eyes flashed and his breathing quickened. 'Don't you see?' he shouted. 'One way or another, you'll leave me, Jeeves!' 

There was no doubt about it now: Jeeves did appear stricken. He raised his unoccupied hand to cup Bertie's flushed face, stroking his thumb shakily over his cheekbone. 'What shall I swear on, sir? A Bible? My mother's grave? My own life? What would convince you that I intend to remain at your side for as long as you'll have me?'

Bertie's lip quavered as he tried to formulate a response. In time, he managed: 'But that's not for me to decide, is it? How long you'll remain?'

'Sir?'

'Even if by some miracle we manage to succeed in fostering this _thingness_ between us, all the while keeping it hidden from everyone we know,' Bertie continued in a broken voice, 'you'll still leave me in the end, when you leave this earth. I couldn't stand to have you and then lose you, Jeeves; I really would go mad.'

The valet blinked. 'Are you denying me because I'm...mortal?' Jeeves gave a small, completely inappropriate glimmer of a smile. 'I must admit, that is rather unfair, sir.'

'It's not at all funny!' Bertie cried. 'If you knew what I'd been through these past few weeks, living in fear of you slipping away forever, then you wouldn't be laughing!'

'Of course, sir.' Jeeves sobered instantly. 'I merely find it strange that, for the same reasons, the two of us are working in different directions.'

'Eh?' Bertie furrowed his brow.

'My brush with death has taught me one thing,' Jeeves said, his hand caressing across Bertie's cheek. 'When it became apparent to me how fragile life is, how much can change in an instant,' he sucked in a sharp breath as his fingers encountered the silken threads of hair at the back of Bertie's neck, 'I saw little reason in concealing what is so obviously within my heart. Perhaps I should not have revealed it to you as I did, sir, but what's done is done. If you cannot accept me as I am, then please allow me to continue serving you as your valet, and we shall speak no more of it.'

Bertie wavered. Positively vacillated. His heart said one thing, and his brain said another. One side was a dream, a fantasy, a shimmering image in the desert whatsits. The other side was cold, lonely logic. However, the Wooster brain had never been lauded as anything substantial, and Bertie knew almost as soon as the internal battle began how it would end. Only one thing niggled.

'How can I know,' he asked slowly, 'that you really do feel this way about Bertram? That this is a forever sort of feeling, not just a product of coming within spitting distance of the pearly gates?'

After a moment's thoughtful pause, Jeeves produced the picture card of New York from his suit coat and held it up for Bertie's review. 'I saved this, sir,' he said, 'because I have loved you since the moment I found this card waiting for me on the kitchen table in the New York flat.' 

Bertie felt a stab of pain in his chest, as if someone had squeezed his heart in a vice for a moment. 'Oh, Jeeves...' The idea of how long and how silently Jeeves had stored away his love made Bertie melt.

'I am not usually given to flights of sentimentality, sir,' Jeeves continued, replacing the card in his inner pocket with a slight cough, 'but in this one instance, I allowed it to overcome me.'

Bertie gave a hiccuping laugh. 'You're too good to be true,' Bertie murmured. 'You're too good for this chap. And a dashed good bit smarter about this whole business. You're correct as always: life is too bally short.' He placed a hand on Jeeves' damask cheek, where his dark eyelashes fluttered pleasingly. 'I only wish there were a way to put the marriage shackles on you, Jeeves. Then I could be sure of never losing you while there's still breath to be had in your body.'

'As you say, sir,' Jeeves said, and dropped to the ground on bended knee, clasping Bertie's hand in both of his. 'It may not be legally binding, but I will give you my vow to be as a husband to you, if you will be mine.'

'Jeeves!' Bertie stood gaping down at his man. 'What the devil are you doing? Get up!' He tugged his arm, attempting to force Jeeves to rise, but the valet held on tightly.

'Where shall I begin?' Jeeves murmured almost to himself before proceeding in a clear voice. 'I promise to forgive you all your beautiful flaws, sir, if you will overlook my ugly ones.'

'I say! Get up from the floor!' Bertie was now crying with laughter, tears leaking from the corners of his crinkled eyes.

'I swear to forsake all others and to aid you in the same endeavour, sir.'

'You silly ass, this is really too much!'

'I give you my word that my love for you will never fade.' Jeeves lifted Bertie's hand and turned his face into the soft palm, visibly relishing in the feel of Bertie's touch. 'It grows in your presence to unimaginable heights, sir. I love you more now than I did this morning, and I loved you more this morning than I did last night. Every day the depths of my feelings go deeper. You make me infinite, sir.'

'Jeeves, please stop,' Bertie said quietly.

Jeeves looked up at him. 'You do not wish me to continue?' he asked with an innocence that only he could purport.

'I'll remind you, Jeeves,' Bertie said, sinking down on his own knee, hand still clasped in Jeeves' grip, 'that we have been living as husband and husband for some weeks now. You share my bed, you share my breakfasts, you share my verbal rendition of the evening's newspapers. All that was missing was the declaration, and now I have that.'

Jeeves paused, and Bertie almost felt guilty for forcing him to plead like this. 'And shall I hear a declaration from you, sir?' he finally asked.

'Would you like one?'

'It would be most agreeable.'

'I liked yours. Was it your own?'

'Completely, sir.'

'Hm, then I suppose I shall have to construct something original as well. I don't want to steal all your best bits, Jeeves,' he teased.

'By all means, sir.'

Kneeling before each other on the floor, the two men bent their heads nearer so that Bertie needed only to whisper the words that popped into his head. 'I vow to figure out what all these "flaws" of yours might be, Jeeves, so that I may compare them with my own glaring ones and show you how dashed perfect you truly are.'

'Oh, sir—' Jeeves rebuked fondly.

'Now, now. Don't interrupt the ceremony.' Bertie grinned at him. 'Where was I? Ah. I can't promise I won't get engaged to some awful girl in the future, but I can say for certain that I'll have no desire to ever be tied to another person. It's you or nothing, Jeeves, and I'll be needing your help to nip said engagements in the bud.' 

'Certainly, sir.'

'And lastly, but perhaps most importantly,' Bertie said softly, suddenly serious, 'I swear to love you always.' He slid his hand round the back of Jeeves' head, and he pulled him forward to touch their foreheads together. 'All ways, in all seasons, for all time,' he whispered into Jeeves' parted lips.

Bertie could hear Jeeves' shaky intake of breath, and he closed the distance between their mouths with the barest tilt of his head. His lips brushed against Jeeves' once, twice, and then latched on fully, a small groan escaping him and folding into the kiss. Jeeves wrapped his arms round his shoulders as they both fell to the carpet.

'Oh, Lord in Heaven,' Jeeves said in a hushed voice against Bertie's neck when the embrace was broken. 'Is it the same for you, sir?'

'You mean, does it make my legs turn to jelly and my cardiac organ hammer like the dickens?' Bertie panted. 'Yes, Jeeves, I believe so.'

'I've loved you for so long, sir,' Jeeves murmured as he explored the sweep of Bertie's jaw with his lips.

Bertie clutched at Jeeves' arms, so strong round his waist. 'Do you want to call me Bertie?'

Jeeves drew back and stared down at him. 'Must I?'

'Erm, no. I suppose not.' Bertie shrugged. 'But should I call you Reggie?'

A shudder passed through Jeeves' solid frame. 'Please, sir. Only my family members call me by my given name. It seems entirely inappropriate to have their faces called to mind at a time like this.'

'I see what you mean,' Bertie said with a grimace. 'Not exactly the mental audience one wishes to have present during one's honeymoon.'

Jeeves rested his regal head on one fist, which was propped up with his elbow on the floor. Bertie marvelled at how graceful the man could be, even stretched out on the hallway carpet. 'Honeymoon, sir?'

'Well, it may not be Paris, but I believe the master bedroom is three or four steps east and boasts accommodations for two.' Bertie tipped his chin in the direction. 'Such a thing is traditional, what? After marriages, I mean.'

Jeeves laid his warm, square hand in the middle of Bertie's chest, fingering the buttons of his shirt. 'You needn't rush into that aspect of our relationship, sir, if you're not comfortable with—'

Bertie caught the wandering hand in one of his and brought it to his lips to kiss. 'Whatever happened to "life is short," Jeeves?'

Jeeves dark eyes sparkled with good humour. 'Indeed, sir.'

And together, they helped each other to their fawn-like feet and, wobbly with eagerness, they stumbled into the master bedroom and into each other's arms.

 

Epilogue

A crisp late-autumn wind was blowing as Bertram W. Wooster climbed the grassy ridge, his chilled, gloved hands clutching his paper-wrapped burden. His breath puffed from between his lips in dreamy white clouds before disappearing into thin air, carried away by the merciless Norfolk wind. Some nearby trees rustled in the sudden gust, but Bertie plodded onward, his back hunched to protect himself from the cold. He might as well have been the only living thing for miles. Nothing else seemed to stir in that desolate countryside.

He reached the little iron gate at the top of the hill, and he opened its squeaky door as he had a dozen times before. The path between the gravestones was a weaving one. Left at the O'Rourkes, right at the camilla bush, another left at Munroe. A few more steps, fine leather shoes crunching on gravel, and Bertie arrived at the headstone. In large, sturdy letters: Jeeves.

With a sigh, Bertie unwrapped the bouquet of red roses in his arms. He crumpled the paper in his overcoat's pocket and knelt with a small twinge in his joints. Old age comes for us all, he thought with a dry smile. He placed the roses on the grave and sat back on his heels. He rubbed his hands together, hoping to generate some warmth.

'Allow me, sir,' a deep voice said behind him, and Bertie found himself efficiently helped to his feet. Before him, Jeeves, his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his bowler hat, held his gloved hands and blew his warm breath over the cold digits.

'Thank you, old thing,' Bertie said with a pleased sigh. 'Is the two-seater safely stowed?'

'Yes, I believe I've located a space for it which even the groundskeeper cannot dispute is appropriate.' Jeeves looked down at the grave site with his heavy, dark gaze. 'I must thank you for bringing the flowers, sir.'

'It's the least I can do for your fine parents, Jeeves.' Bertie stood back from the grave a bit, ready to allow Jeeves his usual moment alone at the place.

They had been coming here for years, ever since that strange turn of events: the daylight robbery, Jeeves being shot, Bertie caring for him as best he knew how. Both of them revealing themselves to each other out of vulnerability, out of need. It hadn't been easy, Bertie knew, giving himself over to Jeeves completely. Letting what may come, come. Learning to love him the way he deserved.

It had been nearly a year after that first kiss, their first confession, their first everything, when Jeeves asked Bertie if he would like to accompany him on a small journey, one he took every year on the anniversary of his mother's death. The first time Bertie had climbed that grassy ridge in the middle of nowhere, approaching the little village cemetery by Jeeves' side, he had never been more filled with wonder that this man, this paragon, would allow him to hold something as precious as his stalwart heart.

And then, only two months ago, after years and years of knowing the chap, Bertie had attended Clarence Jeeves' funeral.

Clarence had lived a long life. He had been well-liked; it seemed everyone in Norfolk was there at his send-off. Bertie had stood at the back, lost in the crowd of villagers and old servants, while Jeeves and his cousins carried the coffin through the little church. It was difficult to believe a man who had been so larger-than-life, so vital, was gone forever.

Bertie took another step back, blinking his eyes rapidly at the annoying moisture gathering there. He admitted to himself that perhaps he had come to look upon Clarence as a father of sorts; while Jeeves had never explicitly told his father about the relations that existed between master and man, Bertie felt that Clarence had known. Somehow, he'd known.

Now, he was buried next to his wife. Bertie felt his face crumple.

'Sir.' Jeeves' gloved hand slid into Bertie's own. It was a gesture taken only because of their remote location; there wasn't another soul in sight; otherwise, Jeeves would never have risked such an innocent but telling touch. 'Are you well?'

'Do you wish to be buried here, in the family plot?' Bertie whispered. 'When you're gone, I mean. I suppose I should know so—'

'My place is by your side,' Jeeves answered. 'I will rest where ever you lay me, sir.'

'The same goes for me, then,' Bertie said softly. He looked up at Jeeves, whose hair was a touch silver now, whose face was a bit lined with time, whose eyes were just as intelligent and all-seeing as ever.

Jeeves nodded and brought Bertie's gloved hand to his lips, pressing a kiss there. 'Shall we return home, sir?'

Home. Where Jeeves would build a fire in the grate, and Bertie could shed his heavy clothing and slip between the bed sheets to rest his travel-worn body. Where Jeeves would join him in the dark, in the bed they had shared all this time. Where Bertie would brush his fingertips, his lips, against the jagged white scar on Jeeves' left flank, that everlasting emblem. Where they would sleep in each other's embrace, kept warm through the chilled night.

Home.

'Yes,' Bertie said. 'Lead on, Jeeves.'


End file.
